OP  CATJF.    T.TBPAPy.    LOS  ANGELES 


• 


'Just  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  dear,  and  my  father  will  be 
free"  (page  279) 


THE 
RUNNING  FIGHT 


BY 
WILLIAM  HAMILTON  OSBORNE 

Author  of  "  The  Red  Mouse  " 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HARRISON  FISHER  AND 

GEORGE  BREHM 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
WILLIAM    HAMILTON    OSBORNE 

Published  April,  1910 


TO 
W.  H.  O.,  Jr.  and  F.  S.  O. 


21fll870 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Just  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  dear,  and  my 

father  will  be  free"     .      (page  279)     Frontispiece 

FACIXO  PAGE 

It  was  a  mere  wisp  of  a  girl  who  confronted  him       14 

If  only  he  had  dared  ...  he  would  have  drawn 
the  dainty  head  of  Leslie  Wilkinson  down  on 
his  shoulder  and  would  have  kissed  her  then 
and  there 76 

"  We've  got  a  long  fight  ahead,  Leslie — a  running 
fight,  as  Colonel  Morehead  calls  it,  but  I'm 
ready" 37O 


ONCE,  twice,  thrice, — failing  miserably  in  his 
attempt  to  appear  unconcerned, — Ilingsworth 
paced  back  and  forth  in  front  of  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson's big  house  in  Riverside  Drive.  There  it 
stood:  a  massive,  forbidding,  modern  pile  of 
limestone,  wholly  unlike  anything  in  its  vicinity. 
And  yet,  now  that  the  time  had  come,  Ilings- 
worth's  face  wore  a  confused,  half-fearful  look,  a 
sense  of  uncertainty  possessed  him,  which  was  all 
the  more  maddening  because  so  far,  at  least,  there 
had  been  no  obstacles  or  delays  in  this  brief,  tur- 
bulent journey  of  his;  on  the  contrary,  all  had 
gone  well  with  him,  and  like  a  falcon  in  pursuit 
of  its  prey  he  had  sped  on  the  straightest  of 
straight  lines  towards  a  person  of  the  name  of 
Leslie  Wilkinson,  and  this  person,  so  Ilingsworth 
assured  himself,  would  soon  feel  his  claws. 

From  a  distance,  it  is  true,  Wilkinson's  impos- 
ing structure  had  differed  little  from  that  which 
his  imagination  had  led  him  to  expect.  It  was 
like  the  pictures  he  had  seen  of  it  many  times  in 
the  papers;  so  like,  in  fact,  that  even  now  in  his 
extremity  he  could  feel  the  strange,  exultant  pride 
fie  had  experienced  but  a  few  short  months  ago 
when  exhibiting  to  Elinor  a  counterfeit  present- 


2  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ment  of  it  in  a  monthly  magazine.  And,  cer- 
tainly, he  had  every  right  to  be  proud,  at  least, 
so  he  thought  then, — for  was  not  he,  Elinor's 
father,  Giles  Ilingsworth  of  Morristown,  a  close 
business  associate  of  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  the 
great  financier?  His  business  associate!  Ugh! 
The  very  thought  of  it  now  made  him  shiver, 
tortured  him.  Indeed,  to  such  an  extent  that, 
on  nearing  the  place,  his  vengeful  purpose  was 
kindled  anew,  and  his  right  hand  took  a  fresh 
grip  on  an  object  of  sinister  shape  hidden  in  his 
pocket.  At  that  moment  Ilingsworth  had  but  one 
idea :  to  get  it  over  with  as  soon  as  possible. 

But  once  actually  in  front  of  the  Wilkinson 
mansion,  when  his  eyes  sweeping  upward  had 
failed  to  catch  the  point  of  view  of  the  press 
photographers,  a  feeling  akin  to  panic  had  come 
over  him;  and  he  had  passed  and  repassed,  unable 
to  force  himself  to  the  point  of  making  an  inquiry 
of  a  passerby.  And  yet,  what  could  he  do  to  make 
certain?  And  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  half- 
smothered  cries  of  "  Is  this  Wilkinson's  ?  There 
must  be  no  mistake  .  .  ."  there  fell  on  his  ears 
the  raucous  squeal  of  a  megaphone,  and,  turning 
whence  came  the  sound,  he  beheld  a  crowded  tour- 
ists' sight-seeing  car  rolling  slowly  and  laboriously 
along  the  Drive,  its  interlocutor  busily  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  his  genteel  profession. 

"We  now  perceive  the  palatial   residence   of 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  3 

Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  the  multi-millionaire — the 
ten-million-dollar  steal  trust — so  called  from  the 
habit  of  its  owner  in  stealing  trust  companies." 

This  exceptionally  brilliant  play  upon  words 
was  instantly  rewarded  by  a  titter  from  some  of 
the  occupants  of  the  car,  and  the  perpetrator,  en- 
couraged, proceeded : 

"This  house  contains  no  less  than  eighty-four 
rooms;  has  twenty-four  bathrooms,  not  to  speak 
of  the  Turkish  bath;  has  paintings  worth  a  mil- 
lion or  two;  the  rugs  cost  half  a  million,  at  least; 
and  nearly  a  million  pounds  of  bronze  has  been 
used  in  its  construction.  Wilkinson's  second  wife 
— Maggie  Lane,  when  he  married  her,  now  Mrs. 
Margaret  Lane  Wilkinson, — is  said  to  be  the 
handsomest  woman  in  the  block."  He  paused  to 
heighten  the  effect  of  what  was  to  follow;  then 
trumpeted:  "That  is,  on  this  end  of  the  block. 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson  owns  seventeen  trust  com- 
panies in  the  City  of  New  York.  He  is  president 
of  the  famous,  and  now  notorious,  Interstate  Trust 
Company  which  closed  its  doors  last  week.  Also 
president  of  the  Tri-State  Trust — the  largest  trust 
company  in  the  world,  now  toppling  on  the  brink 
of  the  precipice.  .  .  ." 

So  the  voice  droned  on,  the  car  laboured  on, 
and  the  passengers,  already  sufficiently  gorged 
with  Wilkinson's  affairs,  would  have  been  spared 
any  further  enlightenment  had  not  the  eye  of  this 


4  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

dispenser  of  metropolitan  information  lighted 
upon  Ilingsworth  as  the  latter,  trying  to  escape 
attention,  stepped  into  the  low-arched  doorway  of 
the  Wilkinson  home.  The  opportunity  was  too 
good  to  be  lost. 

"The  gentleman,"  proceeded  the  privileged 
lecturer,  "now  entering  this  impressive  imperial 
mansion,  is  not  Peter  V.  Wilkinson.  Note  the 
sinister  expression  of  the  back  of  his  head  and  the 
peculiar  attitude  of  his  right  arm!"  The  mega- 
phone turned  itself  directly  upon  Ilingsworth,  and 
kept  on:  "He  looks  like  a  disgruntled  depositor 
of  the  Interstate  Trust  Company — what  if  he  be 
making  a  call  for  the  purpose  of  putting  a  pill 
into  the  proprietor?  What?" 

Ilingsworth  turned  an  involuntary,  startled 
glance  toward  the  car.  Despite  a  desperate  effort 
at  self-control,  he  was  visibly  alarmed,  and  jerked 
his  hand  swiftly  from  the  confines  of  his  pocket. 
Amidst  a  chorus  of  laughter  at  his  action  the  car 
rolled  on.  Ilingsworth  turned  back  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  house,  muttering  to  himself: 

"  They  little  know,  they  little  know     .     .     J" 

Presently  he  pulled  himself  together  and  pressed 
the  button  with  that  same  right  hand,  then  squared 
his  shoulders,  once  more  dropping  both  hands  at 
his  side.  There  was  a  short  interval  of  waiting, 
during  which  he  kept  repeating  to  himself,  as 
though  conning  some  essential  lesson: 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  5 

"Leslie  Wilkinson — Leslie  Wilkinson,  that's 
the  man  I  want  to  see." 

Suddenly  a  heavy  door  was  swung  open  inward 
and  a  butler  stood  before  him,  bowing. 

"Leslie  Wilkinson,"  demanded  Ilingsworth 
somewhat  explosively.  There  was  no  prefix  to 
the  name — Ilingsworth  was  not  considering  the 
conventionalities.  He  had  come  fresh  from  the 
confidential  reports  of  Wall  Street  detectives. 
Those  two  words  had  seared  themselves  into  his 
brain. 

The  butler  looked  surprised,  shocked,  that  is, 
so  far  as  his  rigid  training  would  permit. 

"Leslie  Wilkinson,"  he  repeated  doubtfully, 
as  though  already  hypnotised  into  the  other's 
trend  of  thought. 

"Leslie  Wilkinson,"  said  Ilingsworth,  "and 
right  away." 

The  servant  bowed. 

"Who  shall  I  say,  sir?" 

Ilingsworth  smiled.  It  was  all  too  easy,  so  it 
seemed.  He  felt  as  though  the  fates  were  with 
him,  as  though  before  him  lay  the  path  to  victory. 
His  breath  came  short  and  fast  as  he  thought  of 
the  possibilities:  for  if  he  should  succeed,  Elinor 
forever  would  be  safe — could  take  her  rightful 
place  in  society. 

"There's  my  card,"  he  said,  drawing  forth  his 
wallet. 


6  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Instantly  the  butler  became  obsequious,  for  not 
only  did  he  perceive  that  the  visitor  bore  himself 
as  a  gentleman,  but  he  recognised  the  card  as  an 
open-sesame  to  his  master.  He  handled  it  with 
infinite  respect.  It  read: 


MR.  GILES  ILINGSWORTH 

rice-President  of  the 
Tri-State  Trust  Company, 
New  York. 


"Your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  butler  before  he 
closed  the  door,  and  with  a  nod  of  the  head  to- 
wards the  street.  "Your  car — does  it  need  at- 
tention, sir?  Our  garage  is  only  half  a  block 
away.  Shall  I  send  out  and  tell  your  chauffeur, 
sir?" 

Ilingsworth's  glance  followed  that  of  the  but- 
ler's. A  blue  limousine  stood  throbbing  at  the 
curb.  It  had  evidently  been  there  all  the  while, 
though  Ilingsworth  had  failed  to  observe  it. 

"  It's  not  my  car,"  he  returned  brusquely. 

Again  a  puzzled  look  came  over  the  servant's 
face,  but  concealing  his  embarrassment,  he  closed 
the  door. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  he  said.  "Kindly  step  this 
way." 

Ilingsworth  followed  him  down  the  long  hall 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  7 

to  the  entrance  of  a  room  before  which  stood  an- 
other servant. 

"Step  into  the  reception-room,  sir,  if  you 
please,"  said  the  butler.  But,  to  the  astonishment 
of  both  men,  the  footman  advanced  and  waved 
them  back,  saying: 

"One  moment,  please,  sir."  And  oblivious  to 
the  fact  that  Ilingsworth  was  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  broad  hall,  he  drew  the  butler  to  one 
side,  whispered  in  a  confidential,  off-duty  aside: 
"  You  must  not  take  him  in  there.  Put  him  some- 
where else." 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  butler.  "Who's  in 
there?" 

The  footman  became  inexcusably  mysterious. 
He  looked  about  him  on  all  sides  to  see  that  he 
was  unheard.  Then  he  shaded  his  mouth  with 
his  hand  and  placed  his  lips  close  to  the  other's 
ear. 

"  Her,"  he  whispered. 

The  butler  eyed  the  footman  sharply. 

"  Her !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  Who's  she  ?  " 

"There's  only  one  her,"  he  answered,  and 
pursed  his  lips  as  though  about  to  perpetrate  an 
explosion.  And  then  it  came :  "  Miss  Braine,  of 
course.  Here's  her  card." 

The  man  who  had  admitted  Giles  Ilingsworth 
stiffened  when  he  looked  upon  this  card,  which 
read: 


8  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Miss  MADELINE  BRAINE 

The    Llandegraff 

th  Street  and 

the  Drive. 

"  Not  the  governor's  .    .    .  ?  " 

"The  same." 

"What's  she  doing  here?" 

For  answer  the  footman  merely  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"When  did  she  come?"  asked  the  butler. 

"Ten  minutes  or  so  ago." 

"  But  I  didn't  see  her  come." 

"  I  let  her  in ;  you  were  downstairs." 

The  butler  came  as  near  to  a  whistle  as  any 
butler  on  duty  ever  came.  What  is  more,  in  his 
agitation  at  this  new  and  unexpected  crisis,  he 
quite  forgot  the  presence  of  Giles  Ilingsworth, 
vice-president  of  the  largest  trust  company  in  the 
world. 

"  There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  if  the  missus  sees 
her!  Did  she  ask  for " 

"  She  came  to  see  the  governor,"  interrupted 
the  footman,  shaking  his  head;  "  and  what's  more, 
she  says  she's  going  to  wait  until  he  comes." 

The  butler  knitted  his  brows. 

"  You  were  a  fool  to  let  her  in !  Is  that  her 
car  outside?" 

"Don't  you  know  it  when  you  see  it?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  9 

The  mention  of  the  car  forced  the  butler's 
thoughts  back  to  Ilingsworth.  He  started  toward 
the  financier  of  the  Tri-State  Company  with  abun- 
dant apology  upon  his  lips. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  .  .  ."  he  began,  and 
then  stopped.  For  as  he  passed  the  door  of  the 
reception-room  he  was  able  tof  peer  into  it,  and  by 
some  servant's  trick  to  sweep  every  corner  of  it 
with  his  glance.  It  was  a  room  void  of  hangings, 
almost  bare  in  its  rich  simplicity — one  of  those 
triumphs  of  interior  decoration.  The  butler's  face 
was  pale  as  he  retraced  his  steps  and  once  more 
faced  his  fellow-servant. 

"  There's  not  a  soul  in  there — see  for  yourself." 

The  other  did  see  for  himself,  and  he,  too, 
looked  bewildered. 

"  But  I  put  her  in  there,  and  I  put  her  there  to 
stay.  I  didn't  leave  her  for  more  than  half  a  sec- 
ond. Where's  she  gone?  " 

Instantly  the  butler  took  charge  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  in  commanding  sotto  voce  directed  the 
other  to  look  in  the  library,  the  music-room,  the 
Louis  XIV.  room,  even  in  the  grand  salon. 

The  search  was  conducted  quietly  and  with  de- 
corum, and  it  is  only  due  to  these  two  past-masters 
of  the  art  of  footmanship  to  say  that  this  dialogue 
had  taken  an  almost  infinitesimal  space  of  time, 
that  its  utterance  had  been  practically  inaudible, 
and  that  Ilingsworth,  the  guest  to  whom  these  two 


io          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

had  owed  a  very  present  duty,  had  not  yet  begun 
to  realise  that  his  interests  were  in  any  wise  neg- 
lected. 

But  the  footman  came  back  disgruntled,  dis- 
turbed, and  wailing  that  she  was  not  to  be  found. 
And  then  it  was  that  the  butler  stepped  once  more 
to  the  side  of  Giles  Ilingsworth  and  said  some- 
what contritely: 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  would  you  mind 
stepping  into  '  the  Den,' "  all  the  while  showing 
the  way.  "  It's  Mr.  Wilkinson's  favourite  place, 
his  private  room,  sir,  for  seeing  all  his  friends — 
business  and  otherwise,  sir — yes,  sir." 

Ilingsworth  followed  where  the  butler  led.  And 
then,  turning  sharply  upon  him,  he  repeated: 

"  I'm  waiting  to  see  Leslie  Wilkinson.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Alone  in  "the  Den"  Ilingsworth  smiled  as  he 
looked  about  him.  Fate  was  surely  favouring 
him.  The  Den  was  a  quasi-business  office  and 
smoking-room,  a  room  where  anybody  might  be 
interviewed  by  anybody  of  the  household.  It  was 
in  this  room  that  Tiffany's  man  displayed  his  big- 
gest, newest  jewels  to  Mrs.  Peter  V.;  it  was  in 
this  room  that  Mrs.  Peter  V.'s  women  friends 
would  drop  in  evenings  for  a  chat  with  Peter  V. 
as  he  smoked  a  black  cigar;  it  was  the  comfort- 
able place  of  the  whole,  big  house.  But  to  Dings- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          11 

worth  it  was  something  more:  it  was  the  place 
best  fitted  for  the  arena  of  events  as  events  had 
shaped  themselves.  "  The  Den "  had  but  one 
window — a  high  window  that  ran  along  one  side 
of  the  wall  just  underneath  the  black-beamed 
ceiling  and  just  above  a  long,  comfortable,  leather 
seat  that  ran  along  the  wall.  The  window  was 
above  the  head  of  an  ordinary  man,  and  was  com- 
posed of  leaded  glass.  It  gave  but  little  light, 
and  afforded  no  view  at  all  of  the  world  without. 
For  the  rest,  there  was  a  big,  flat-topped  desk, 
heavy,  leather-covered  lounging-chairs,  and  heavy, 
dark  red  curtains  everywhere  about  the  walls. 
And  but  a  single  door. 

"The  place  I've  dreamed  about,"  Ilingsworth 
thought  to  himself.  For  an  instant  he  stood 
drinking  in  all  of  its  details  in  some  sort  of  glee- 
ful ecstasy — the  ecstasy  of  a  man  who  feels  the 
end  of  the  journey  near.  And  then,  suddenly,  he 
became  all  action.  He  stepped  to  the  desk  upon 
which  stood  a  desk-telephone  upon  a  standard, 
and  a  small  mahogany  tablet  with  two  push-but- 
tons on  its  surface. 

"  I  can't  understand  why  it's  all  so  easy,"  he 
told  himself;  and  the  next  moment  he  drew  from 
his  left  coat-pocket  a  pair  of  wire-cutters,  and 
with  two  sudden,  jerky  twists  of  his  right  wrist 
he  clipped  the  flexible  green-covered  wires  that 
connected  the  push-buttons  and  the  telephone,  and 


12          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

twisted  the  unconnected  ends  down  and  out  of 
sight.  It  was  his  first  advent  in  this  house  of 
Wilkinson,  and  yet  he  had  rehearsed  the  scene  in 
his  waking  hours  and  in  his  sleep  so  many,  many 
times,  that  he  did  it  without  nervousness  and  with- 
out fear.  So  that  he  was  not  surprised  to  find 
himself  more  than  practise-perfect.  He  glanced 
about  the  room  for  evidences  of  other  wires,  but- 
tons, bells  and  speaking  tubes,  and  then  swooped 
down  upon  the  door. 

"If  only  it  has  a  key!"  he  thought;  and  the 
next  moment  he  almost  cried  out  joyfully,  for  he 
found  that  it  had  not  only  a  key,  but  that  it 
might  be  bolted  from  the  inside. 

"And  when  it's  bolted,"  he  assured  himself, 
"what  sound  can  penetrate  beyond  its  walls?" 

Beyond  its  walls!  The  phrase,  somehow,  kept 
ringing  in  his  ears;  to  him  there  was  music  in  it. 
He  never  thought  of  the  walls  themselves;  nor 
had  he  ever  asked  himself  whether  behind  those 
rich  and  heavy  hanging  curtains  there  might  not 
be  other  means  of  exit. 

He  took  his  place  behind  the  open  door. 

"  Now  for  the  crisis,"  he  said  calmly  to  him- 
self. 

And  plunging  his  hand  once  more  into  his 
coat-pocket  he  produced  a  gun — a  modern,  ham- 
merless  revolver  that  he  had  selected  with  con- 
siderable care,  after  consulting  the  advertisements 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          13 

in  the  magazines,  and  after  reading  the  booklets 
of  their  makers.  This  gun  he  had  selected,  not 
only  on  account  of  its  particular  efficiency,  but 
also  because  of  its  remarkably  repulsive  look.  It 
bore  the  same  formidable  appearance  compared 
with  the  large  family  of  fire-arms  as  the  bull-dog 
does  to  his  canine  race.  It  was  a  weapon  of 
peculiarly  terrifying  appearance — and  that  was 
what  he  wanted.  For  the  rest,  it  was  a  .32 
calibre,  and  upon  its  handle  it  bore  the  maker's 
name  and  a  number — a  number  that  belonged 
to  this  particular  weapon  and  to  no  other  weapon 
of  this  make  in  the  whole  wide  world. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall 
without  reached  his  ears.  Every  nerve  tingled 
with  his  purpose;  every  muscle  became  rigid  and 
alert. 

"  Now !  "  he  exclaimed. 

".-...   Wilkinson,"   said  the  voice. 

It  was  a  mumbled  announcement  of  some  sort 
which  came  from  the  butler.  Ilingsworth  waited 
until  he  had  retreated,  and  only  when  he  was 
certain  that  but  one  figure  had  entered  the  room, 
was  looking  about  in  wonder  at  its  apparent 
emptiness,  did  he  slowly,  swiftly  close  the  door, 
lock  it,  bolt  it,  and  finally  place  his  back  against 
it.  Then,  levelling  the  weapon,  he  extended  it 
toward  the  person  who  had  entered. 

"  Seat  yourself  at  that  desk,"  he  commanded, 


I4          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

a  dangerous  note  in  his  voice;  "and  don't  make 
any  outcry,  or  I'll " 

He  stopped  short  and  lowered  his  weapon. 

"  Why — I "  he  stammered,  growing  red- 
faced  as  he  spoke. 

It  was  a  mere  wisp  of  a  girl  who  confronted 
him — a  girl  full-throated  and  full-bosomed,  and 
upon  whom  the  gods  had  conferred  that  dazzling 
of  all  dazzling  charms :  light  hair  and  dark  brown 
eyes.  Fascinating  she  was  even  to  Ilingsworth, 
bewildering,  too,  as  she  gazed  upon  him  in  sudden 
fear,  her  eyes  widening,  her  lips  parted. 

" 1 — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered,  con- 
sternation making  it  difficult  for  him  to  speak. 
'"  I  was  expecting  quite  another  person — Leslie 
Wilkinson." 

Too  frightened  to  reply  the  girl  merely  stood 
and  gazed  at  him.  For  a  moment  she  remained 
thus,  and  then,  with  the  shudder  of  one  who 
shakes  from  her  some  horrible  nightmare,  she 
found  her  voice  and  said: 

"Why,  I'm  Miss  Wilkinson — Leslie  Wilkin- 
son!" 

Ilingsworth  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 

"You — you  are  Leslie  Wilkinson!"  he  broke 
out.  "Surely  there  must  be  some  mistake.  Les- 
lie is  a  man's  name,  isn't  it?" 

The  girl  struggled  to  regain  her  composure. 
Dumb  founded  and  confused  though  he  was, 


It  was  a  mere  wisp  of  a  girl  who  confronted  him 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          15 

Ilingsworth  saw  this,  and  with  a  hasty  movement 
thrust  the  revolver  behind  his  back.  And  still 
facing  her,  he  retreated  to  a  small  table  at  the  far 
corner  of  the  room,  and  leaned  against  it,  thus 
concealing  the  weapon.  In  a  measure  this  action 
of  his  reassured  the  girl.  Her  countenance  broke 
into  a  tremulous  smile,  though  her  breast  rose  and 
fell  tumultuously  and  her  breath  came  in  gasps. 

'  Yes,"  she  replied  in  an  endeavour  to  gain 
time,  "Leslie  is  a  man's  name  except  when  it 
happens  to  be  a  girl's  name,  too.  My  name  is 
Leslie — I'm  a  girl — you  see." 

But  again  terror  seized  her.  The  man  before 
her  was  undoubtedly  insane,  she  thought,  and  she 
glanced  widely  about  the  room  for  some  avenue 
of  escape.  There  was  only  the  door,  and  like 
some  startled,  wild  thing,  she  broke  into  a  run 
toward  it.  But  half  way  across  the  room  she 
halted,  throwing  over  her  shoulder  a  glance  of 
fear  toward  Ilingsworth,  and  then  slowly  re- 
treated to  her  position  at  the  desk. 

"Please  don't  shoot!"  she  pleaded.  "I  prom- 
ise you  I  won't  try  to  get  away ! " 

Slowly,  cautiously,  Ilingsworth  stretched  forth 
his  left  hand.  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  frighten  the  girl. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  assured  her,  and  so 
quietly  and  courteously  now  that  it  seemed  to  the 
girl  as  if  another  man  was  speaking.  "  I'm  not 


16          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

going  to  shoot — I  shall  stay  right  where  I  am, 
don't  fear.  If  you  wish  you  may  go  now."  But 
as  she  started  to  go  he  leaned  forward  and  said : 
"  You're  free  to  go," — there  was  a  pathetic  note 
in  his  voice  now, — "but  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
something — to  explain  my  presence  here.  I  came 
here  looking  for  Leslie  Wilkinson — the  son  of 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  and " 

"  But,"  she  interrupted,  in  a  puzzled  way,  "  but 
my  father  has  no  son — I'm  his  only  child." 

Ilingsworth  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  know  that  now,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  didn't 
know  it  before.  I  was  looking  for  a  conspirator 
of  Peter  V.  Wilkinson's,  and  I  thought  I  had  run 
him  down.  I  thought  I  had,  indeed.  .  .  .  You 
must  not  be  frightened,"  he  went  on  hastily,  "  and 
don't  think  me  crazy.  I'm  only  horribly  nervous. 
I've  been  desperate  for  weeks.  I  wouldn't  harm 
you  for  the  world — I  have  a  daughter  of  my  own. 
But  you  must  hear  me  out — I've  got  to  tell  this 
to  somebody — somebody  who  believes  me,  or  I'll 
go  mad.  No,  no,"  he  pleaded,  for  she  seemed 
about  to  leave  him.  "  My  name  is — why,  here's 
my  card — I'm " 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Giles  Ilingsworth,  Vice- 
President  of  the  Tri-State,"  she  said  smilingly, 
giving  a  hasty  look  at  the  card  in  his  hand.  "  I 
remember,  now,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  I 
wondered  what  you  might  want  with  me.  You 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  17 

see  I  dressed  all  up  for  you,"  and  she  flashed  a 
glance  of  coquetry  toward  him  that  was  meant 
to  captivate  and  appease,  for  she  was  still  under 
the  impression  that  she  was  dealing  with  an  in- 
sane man :  not  for  one  moment  did  she  believe  that 
the  Vice-President  of  the  Tri-State  stood  before 
her. 

Ilingsworth  turned  pale  as  he  watched  her.  Al- 
though apparently  indifferent  to  her  words,  her 
marvellous  self-possession  and  witchery  were  by 
no  means  lost  on  him.  With  something  of  a  pang 
he  realised  that  it  was  easily  explainable.  She 
was  Wilkinson's  daughter;  she  had  her  share  of 
his  wonderful  steadiness  of  nerve.  He  sighed. 
How  many  times  had  he  given  thanks  that  Eli- 
nor was  all  woman,  all  heart,  gentle,  yielding. 
And  yet,  how  much  better  for  her  if  she  had 
some  of  the  qualities  that  Wilkinson  seemed  to 
have  infuse^  into  his  offspring.  Little  did  he 
know  that  Elinor  was  fashioned  in  his  own  mould ; 
that  the  dark-eyed,  warm-faced  girl  that  he  had 
left  at  home  had  inherited  his  impulsiveness,  for 
he  had  been  denied  the  even  balance  accorded  to 
other  business  men.  Compared  with  the  caress- 
ing tenderness  of  his  girl  Elinor,  this  girl  who 
faced  him  seemed,  perhaps,  too  well-balanced. 
But  though  he  did  not  know  it,  he  was  mistaken : 
Leslie  Wilkinson,  though  of  a  different  type,  was 
fully  as  feminine. 


i8          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Elinor,"  he  groaned  half  to  himself. 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  Leslie  began,  breaking  in 
on  his  musings,  "may  I  ask  what  you  want  with 
Leslie  Wilkinson?" 

Her  question  roused  him.  The  blood  forced 
itself  into  his  temples  until  the  veins  stood  out 
like  whipcords  on  his  skull ;  desperation  furrowed 
his  brow  and  lined  his  face. 

"  I  want  nothing  of  Leslie  Wilkinson  except 
my  own,"  he  answered  sullenly.  "  There's  a  quar- 
ter of  a  million  dollars  that  belongs  to  me — a 
quarter  of  a  million  dollars — every  dollar  that 
I've  got  in  this  world — every  dollar  that  I  ever 
had." 

"  But,"  protested  the  girl,  "  I  haven't  your 
money." 

Ilingsworth  raised  his  eyebrows.  It  was  plain 
that  he  doubted  her,  though  she  spoke  with  every 
indication  of  honesty  and  frankness. 

"You  haven't  any  money,  any  stocks,  bonds, 
deeds,  or  anything  of  the  kind?" 

"  I  have  what  my  mother  left  me,"  was  her 
quiet  answer.  "  She  died  some  time  ago." 

"How  much  was  it?"  he  persisted. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  she  returned,  annoyed. 

Ilingsworth  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  and 
again  he  asked : 

"How  much  was  it?" 

"Less — than    a    million,"    the    girl    faltered. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  19 

"About  three  quarters,  I  should  say.  I  have 
the  figures  somewheres — but  what  is  it  to  you?  " 

The  man  brushed  away  her  answer  as  though 
the  three  quarters  of  a  million  were  a  mere  dross. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth !  "  he  cried.  "  For  heaven's 
sake  don't  lie  to  me !  I'm  a  broken  man !  You've 
got  fifty  million  dollars,  possibly  a  hundred  mil- 
lion standing  in  your  name.  What  do  you  suppose 
I've  spent  my  last  few  thousands  for  but  to  get 
information. that  was  reliable  and  positive.  I  know 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson — and  I'm  the  only  one,  I'll 
wager,  who  knows  the  truth.  Next  week,  next 
year,  the  world  will  say  that  Wilkinson  is  bank- 
rupt— without  a  dollar  in  the  world.  But  I  know 
— I've  found  out.  There  is  not  another  man  in 
the  world  who  could  do  the  thing  he's  done — strip 
a  million  people  of  their  savings  and  hide  it  so 
successfully.  That's  Wilkinson!  Now  whom 
could  he  trust — but  you?  You've  got  it  all! " 

The  girl  was  pale,  but  there  was  a  new  light 
in  her  eyes.  She  began  to  perceive  that  the  man 
who  confronted  her  was  not  a  mere  overwrought 
specimen  of  mankind.  However  much  he  might 
be  mistaken  this  time,  he  was  talking  with  the 
force  of  business  habit. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I,  Mr.  Ilingsworth,  that 
I  can't  very  well  discuss  these  matters  with  you," 
she  said  frankly.  "  My  father  is  ruined — I  don't 
believe  he  will  come  out  of  this  with  a  dollar. 


20          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Who  is  responsible  for  his  ruin,  I  do  not  know." 
Little  wrinkles  creased  her  forehead;  she  stopped 
uncertain  how  to  continue.  "  It's  the  panic,  I 
suppose,"  she  went  on  presently,  "  and  he's  gone 
down  under  it  like  other  Wall  Street  men.  Only 
the  blow — he  suffered,  perhaps,  more  than  the 
others." 

Ilingsworth's  lip  curled. 

"  I  know,"  he  began  emphatically,  "  I  know 
that  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  is  still  worth  from  fifty 
to  a  hundred  million  dollars — money  sucked  like 
life-blood  from  the  populace.  I  know  that  and 
more — his  entire  fortune  stands,  in  a  manner  and 
by  a  method  that  no  one  ever  will  suspect,  in  your 
name.  Your  name,  of  course — whom  else  could 
he  trust?  Surely  not  his  second  wife,  with  all 
that  money?  You  know  that  well  enough." 

"Mr.   Ilingsworth,   I " 

"And  because  you  had  these  millions,"  went 
on  Ilingsworth  hurriedly,  excitedly,  "  among  them 
my  quarter  of  a  million,  not  mine,  but  Elinor's, 
— do  you  know  what  that  means  to  her?" 

Leslie  was  strangely  affected.  She  felt  her  con- 
sciousness vacillating  between  a  sense  of  danger 
and  a  sense  of  pity.  Surreptitiously,  during  the 
first  part  of  the  interview,  she  had  pressed  the 
button  for  assistance,  and  had  discovered,  later, 
the  disconnection  of  the  wires.  Just  what  to  do 
she  did  not  know.  Above  all,  she  realised  that 


21 

she  must  propitiate  this  man — this  man  with  the 
grievance,  real  or  fancied,  whose  statements,  if 
true,  gave  her  the  desire  to  hear  more ;  if  untrue, 
rendered  him  all  the  more  a  man  of  danger.  Im- 
pulsively she  held  out  her  hand,  and  said  softly: 

"  Do  tell  me  about  your  daughter — Elinor — 
Mr.  Ilingsworth." 

Immediately  Illingsworth  dropped  his  air  of 
aggressiveness.  He  advanced  slowly  toward  her, 
his  right  hand  still  in  his  coat-pocket,  but,  as  he 
approached  her,  he  drew  forth  that  hand,  and 
with  it,  a  small  photograph. 

"That's  Elinor," — he  said,  his  face  lighting 
up  wonderfully, — "  as  she  was  about  a  year  ago — 
about  the  time  I  met  your  father.  If  I  had  known 
that  you  existed,  I  should  have  wished  that  she 
could  know  you." 

Leslie  took  the  picture  from  his  hand  and 
looked  long  and  intently  at  it.  To  her  surprise 
she  saw  that  this  was  no  ordinary  face.  The  girl 
was  evidently  petite,  with  an  expression  on  her 
face  that  seemed  to  ask  for  the  world's  fond 
protection  as  well  as  its  admiration;  a  girl  with 
her  soul  in  her  eyes,  at  any  rate,  so  it  seemed  to 
Leslie. 

"Oh,  she's  pretty!"  she  exclaimed.  "But 
someone  must  always  take  care  of  her — always, 
always." 

"You've  said  it,  though  I  never  even  thought 


22          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

it!"  he  cried.  "And  you,  a  stranger,  see  it— 
that  appeal  for  protection,  that  wistfulness, 

that "  Abruptly  he  stopped  and  glanced 

quickly  toward  the  heavy  hangings  on  the  wall 
toward  the  right — a  strange,  startled  glance  it 
was. 

Leslie  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze  won- 
deringly. 

"  I  had  a  feeling,  somehow,"  he  said,  fastening 
his  steely  grey  eyes  suspiciously  on  her,  "that  we 
were  not  alone." 

And  indeed  Ilingsworth  would  have  been  all 
the  more  startled  had  he  known  that  his  fancy 
embodied  the  truth.  For  behind  the  dull  red 
curtains  breathed  a  mortal  who  had  heard,  had 
seen,  everything. 


II 

HOWEVER  successful  Ilingsworth  believed  he  had 
been  in  his  effort  to  persuade  himself  that  his 
intuitive  faculties  had  been  at  fault,  when  they 
warned  him  of  some  alien  presence  in  the  room, 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  continued  to  look 
a  little  tentatively.  At  length,  however,  his  un- 
easiness wore  off,  and  his  manner,  while  again 
holding  out  the  picture  for  Leslie  to  look  upon, 
softened  so  perceptibly  that  it  would  have  given 
one  the  impression  that  his  visit  there  was  more  in 
the  nature  of  a  social  call  than  the  tempestuous 
errand  of  business  vengeance  that  it  was. 

"  I  wish  you  had  known  her,"  Ilingsworth 
said ;  "  and  I'm  rather  surprised  that  you  don't. 
We're  Morristown  people,  you  know,  and  Elinor, 
well,  Elinor's  friends  are  all  very  nice  people. 
Even  in  New  York,  she " 

Leslie's  eyes  sought  the  ground. 

"  We  go  out  *rery  little  here,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  I  have  my  friends,  and  there  was  a  time. 
.  .  .  But  since  my  father  married  a  second  time, 

why "     This  girlish  confidence  trailed  off  into 

uncertainty.  She  handed  back  the  photograph. 
"  But  I  should  like  to  know  her,"  she  declared 
with  sincerity. 

23 


24          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  wish  you  did,"  he  began,  and  then  added, 
"even  in  the  light  of  present  things,  I  wish  you 
did." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  Leslie  fell  to  won- 
dering about  the  man  before  her,  and  it  did  not 
take  her  long  to  decide  that  she  liked  him.  He 
was  not,  it  is  true,  of  the  same  shrewd,  practical 
mould  as  her  father.  But  she  recognised  that  he 
had  the  high-strung  temperament,  so  often  a 
characteristic  of  the  aristocrat.  The  sense  of  fear 
was  fast  leaving  her. 

"  I — I'm  going  to  apologise,"  he  began  at 
length,  "  for  the  fright  I've  given  you,  though 
my  purpose  hasn't  flagged.  And  if  I  had  a  man 
to  deal  with — if  I  had  met  Peter  V.  Wilkinson, 
face  to  face  again,  who  knows  but  the  demon  in 
me  would  come  once  more  to  the  fore.  You  say 
you  can't  understand.  Let  me  explain  to  you  how 
it  was:  Up  to  thirteen  months  ago  we,  Elinor 
and  I,  had  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars — that 
means  nearly  fifteen  thousand  dollars  a  year.  And 
fifteen  thousand  in  Morristown  means  decent  liv- 
ing— even  here  in  New  York  it  would  mean  that. 
Then  I  met  Wilkinson."  His  face  grew  livid, 
his  hand  clenched.  "  May  heaven  forgive  me, 
why  didn't  I  understand  it  was  my  quarter  of  a 
million  that  this  vampire " 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  and  quickly  inter- 
rupted him. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          25 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,  I  must  remind  you  that  you 
are  speaking  of  my  father." 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  anger.  Her  eyes 
blazed,  and  it  seemed  to  rouse  the  tiger  in  him. 

"Yes,  I'm  speaking  of  your  father!"  he  cried. 
"And  if  you've  never  heard  the  truth  before,  you 
will  hear  it  now.  Moreover,  if  I  am  any  judge 
of  human  nature,  you'll  know  whether  I  am  stating 
facts  or  otherwise.  Thirteen  months  ago  Peter 
V.  Wilkinson  sought  me  out.  I  thought  I  was 
seeking  him," — he  laughed  bitterly, — "but  I 
was  wrong.  He  sought  me  out  and  placed  me 
high  up  in  his  companies.  I  was  successful — 
which  meant  that  he  had  succeeded  in  his  scheme. 
I  did  not  see  it  then;  but  now  I  know  that  the 
man  who  is  willing  to  stoop  low  enough  to  rope 
in  the  pennies  of  the  Bridgets,  the  Michaels,  the 
Lenas,  and  the  Gustaves,  of  this  world,  is  a  man 
who  would  spend  his  time  and  money  to  get  my 
quarter  of  a  million — mine  and  Elinor's — in  his 
grasp.  But  then  I  was  flattered.  It  meant  big 
salary  and  big  dividends  for  me,  at  least,  so  I 
was  assured." 

He  faltered  for  an  instant,  and  then  went  on : 

"  I  was  a  fool — a  fool,  not  to  see  it  all  before. 
The  result  is  that  now  I  haven't  got  a  dollar — 
we're  penniless." 

"  My  father,"  returned  the  girl,  calmly 
enough,  "  will  have  less  than  that,  when  all  is 


26          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

said  and  done.  This  house,  though  it's  in  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Wilkinson,  will  have  to  be  sold,  I 
presume.  I  don't  see  why  you  make  a  fuss  over 
it — it  was  the  panic,  wasn't  it?  Everybody  went 
down  before  it.  That  is,  a  great  many  Wall 
Street  men  are  bankrupt.  So,  why  do  you  com- 
plain?" 

"  I  complain  because  your  father  has  got  my 
quarter  of  a  million — either  he's  got  it,  or  you 
have." 

"  I  told  you  before  that  I  have  none  of  my 
father's  money.  I  have  my  mother's  money  only 
— less  than  a  million,  that's  all." 

"  The  panic ! "  went  on  Ilingsworth  bitterly, 
ignoring  her  protest.  "  Yes,  that's  just  like  Wil- 
kinson to  lay  it  to  the  panic!  That's  what  they 
all  do!  I  tell  you  the  panic  was  not  the  cause; 
it  was  the  excuse.  I  wonder  if  you  have  ever 
stopped  to  realise  what  a  trust  company  is  for?" 

"  Why,  to  save  people's  money,  of  course,"  was 
the  girl's  ready  answer.  "  Just  like  a  bank,  isn't 
it?" 

Ilingsworth  almost  snorted.  It  was  a  strange 
colloquy,  this  conversation  between  the  man  of 
middle  age  and  the  girl.  It  had  a  curious  inter- 
est that  neither  could  have  defined.  The  girl, 
on  her  part,  felt  that  Ilingsworth  represented, 
somehow,  the  criticism  and  abuse  that  the  world 
was  heaping  on  Peter  V.  Wilkinson.  She  wanted 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          27 

to  estimate  its  full  force,  to  weigh  its  import,  and 
then  to  defend  her  father  with  every  fibre  of  her 
being;  Ilingsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  the 
need  of  a  confidant  who  would  understand,  for 
Elinor  of  the  wistful  eyes  could  only  sympa- 
thise. This  young  woman  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  burst  out  now,  "  you 
surprise  me !  I  thought  you  were  more  of  a  busi- 
ness woman  than  I  am  a  business  man.  But  I  find 
you're  not.  Let  me  explain  it  to  you.  Jones 
wants  to  run  a  factory;  Smith  wants  to  speculate 
in  real  estate;  Robinson  wants  to  buck  the  Wall 
Street  game.  Now  they  haven't  got  a  dollar, 
so  what  do  they  do?  They  buy  a  trust  com- 
pany." 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  That's  nonsense !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  How 
can  anyone  buy  a  trust  company  without  a  dol- 
lar!" 

Ilingsworth's  smile  was  full  of  meaning. 

"  It's  the  kind  of  nonsense  your  own  father  has 
been  dealing  in  for  years,"  he  returned,  placing 
his  hand  upon  her  arm.  "  They  buy  the  trust 
company,  and  put  up  its  own  stock  as  security  for 
the  purchase  price — then  they  go  ahead.  Jones 
runs  his  factory;  Smith  buys  and  sells  real 
estate;  Robinson  bucks  the  game  upon  the 
Street  . 


28 

"And  without  money?"  reiterated  the  girl,  still 
incredulous. 

"With  money"  corrected  Ilingsworth,  his 
voice  even  and  unexcited  now,  "with  the  money 
of  Mike  and  Bridget  and  Carl  and  Sophy,  deposi- 
tors who  put  their  hard-earned  dollars  in  to  get  a 
few  cents  interest — two  per  cent.,  to  be  exact — 
while  Jones  and  his  crowd  are  making  two  hun- 
dred per  cent,  on  the  money.  But  Jones  isn't 
through — he  wants  more.  So  he  and  his  crowd 
buy  another  trust  company,  put  up  the  stock 
of  the  first  as  collateral,  or  any  way  you  please, 
— there's  no  end  to  the  game, — and  this  crowd 
go  on  with  their  speculation,  using  the  people's 
money,  and  gathering  in  the  cream.  They  never 
stop ;  and  just  so  long  as  everything  is  prosperous, 
so  long  are  the  trust  companies  sound.  Then, 
in  the  fulness  of  time,  comes  the  panic," — and 
with  his  clenched  hands  he  smote  the  top  of  the 
desk, — "  smash !  " 

The  girl  showed  that  she  had  been  following 
him  closely  when  she  maintained: 

"  Still,  that's  only  your  point  of  view.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  a  venture,  and  when  the  panic  came 
— everybody  goes  under.  These  people  don't 
create  the  panic." 

Ilingsworth  gritted  his  teeth. 

"I  haven't  finished!"  he  cried.  "Out  of  all 
this  crowd  of  Jones,  Smith  and  Robinson,  there  is 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          29 

always  one  man  who  understands  the  game.  He 
owns  seventeen  trust  companies;  he's  milked  them 
dry.  He's  been  waiting  for  a  panic;  the  panic 
comes.  Now  he  throws  up  his  hands,  tells  the 
people  he's  been  a  fool  with  the  rest,  and  shows 
up  worthless  stock — waste-paper  by  the  ton  that 
he  has  bought  for  just  nothing  a  pound.  But  he's 
got  all  that  the  people  haven't  got,  and  he's  salted 
it  away.  And  that  man's  name  is  Peter  V.  Wil' 
kinson." 

Leslie's  face  paled. 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  she  cried  sharply,  "  do 
you  really  believe  all  that  you've  been  telling 
me?" 

Ilingsworth  stared  her  wearily  in  the  face. 

;'  The  Norahs  and  the  Ludwigs,  perhaps,  don't 
mind  losing  their  few  dollars,"  he  replied  vaguely; 
"  but  I  want  to  tell  you  that  when  I — when  Elinor 
and  I  lose  fifteen  thousand  a  year — and  how  many 
years  there  arc  ahead  of  us — it's  killing!  Kill- 
ing !  And  you  ask  do  I  believe  all  that  I've  been 
telling  you?"  He  roused  himself  to  sudden 
energy.  "Believe?  Why,  heavens  and  earth,  I 
know,  I  know.  .  .  ,." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  Ilingsworth's  eyes 
sought  the  floor.  Presently  he  looked  up  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  said  contritely,  "  for 
what  I've  done,  or  tried  to  do  this  afternoon,  I 


30          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

suppose  you  could  have  me  put  in  jail — in  an 
asylum.  If  I  had  only  myself  to  think  of,  I 
shouldn't  mind.  However,  I  beg  you  to  keep 
it  to  yourself,  if  you  feel  you  can.  I  see  things 
clearer  now.  ...  . " 

Leslie  took  the  offered  hand. 

"But  you  weren't  going  to  shoot  Leslie  Wil- 
kinson, if  he'd  been  a  man?" 

Ilingsworth  shook  his  head. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Miss  Wilkinson,  I  wasn't. 
My  intention  was  to  frighten  him.  .  .  ." 

"You  succeeded  admirably,"  she  answered,  with 
a  frank  laugh.  Then  she  added:  "What  were 
you  going  to  frighten  him  into  doing?" 

Ilingsworth's  hand  strayed  to  his  forehead. 

"  I  was  going  to  compel  him  to  sign  a  check, 
turn  over  stock,  restore  to  me  my  quarter  of  a 
million,  somehow." 

The  girl  smiled  as  she  asked: 

"  But  how  could  he  do  it  in  this  room?  Surely 
you  didn't  expect  him  to  have  any  stocks  or  money 
here?  And  if  he  gave  a  check,  you  know  pay- 
ment on  it  could  be  stopped  the  instant  you  had 
left.  And,  anyway,  how  could  you  get  out  un- 
scathed? I  can't  just  see  how  you  could.  ..." 

Ilingsworth  stared  at  her,  fascinated.     He  felt 
his  vision  clear.     He  realised  now  that  she  was 
right;  that  for  weeks  he  had  suffered  the  curse  of, 
the  desperate ;  that  he  had  been  robbed  of  the  one 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          31 

thing  that  the  desperate  man  needs — deliberation. 
He  had  possessed  purpose,  force — the  purpose  to 
force  the  issue  at  the  point  of  a  murderous  re- 
volver, but  when  it  came  to  the  execution.  ... 
And  what  about  the  result?  To  what  end  would 
it  all  tend?  Until  now  he  had  never  thought  of 
that. 

"  I  believe  you're  right,  after  all,"  he  said 
somewhat  sheepishly,  and  started  toward  the 
door.  "  May  I  ask  you  for  your  promise  not  to 
expose  me,"  he  entreated,  "  for  the  sake  of  Eli- 
nor?" 

Leslie  bowed  her  head.  Now  that  it  was  all 
over,  she  was  on  the  verge  of  hysteria.  "  Mr. 
Ilingsworth,  I  won't  say  a  word  about  it,"  she 
promised,  "unless  the  time  comes  when  I  think 
it  necessary.  .  .  .  This  panic  seems  to  have 
made  us  all  half  crazy — even  my  father  seems  so 
most  of  the  time.  Good-bye !  " 

Somewhat  incoherently  Ilingsworth  murmured 
some  grateful  words,  and  immediately  after  Les- 
lie watched  him  silently  and  carefully  unlock  the 
door  and  open  it.  The  hall  was  deserted  save 
for  the  presence  of  a  footman  near  the  front  en- 
trance, and  to  him  this  long  interview  behind 
closed  doors  was  as  nothing.  These  were  parlous 
times,  in  the  house  of  Wilkinson;  strange  goings 
and  comings  were  the  rule,  not  the  exception. 
Nothing  was  unusual.  And  so  Ilingsworth  passed 


32  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

out  in  safety,  carrying  his  purpose  with  him  to  the 
free  air  outside. 

But  no.  sooner  had  he  reached  the  middle  of 
the  sidewalk  than  there  swooped  down  upon  him 
a  horde  of  vagabonds,  infinitesimal  specimens  of 
humanity,  and  this  mob  of  street  gamins  had  but 
a  single  purpose,  sang  but  a  common  song: 

TRI-STATE  TRUST  COMPANY  CLOSES  ITS  DOORS. 
BIGGEST  SMASH  ON  RECORD. 

For  weeks  and  months,  perhaps,  Ilingsworth 
had  seen  this  coming,  had  known  that  it  was  in- 
evitable, and  here  it  was,  thrust  into  his  face  in 
scare  headlines  that  smelt  to  heaven!  It  smote 
him  as  with  sudden  lightning  shock.  But  the  pub- 
lic announcement  did  more  than  shock  him,  it 
turned  him  almost  into  a  raving  maniac.  For  an 
instant  he  stood  silent,  regarding  the  clamorous 
morsels  of  humanity  all  about  him,  clamorous  for 
the  smallest  coin  known  to  the  Union.  Then,  with 
mighty  swings  of  his  arms,  he  swooped  upon  them, 
shrieking: 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,  get  out  of  my  sight,  you 
ragamuffins !  " 

The  newsboys  fled  as  far  as  the  next  corner. 
There  they  stopped,  clustered  once  again  and 
jeered  at  him. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  33 

Turning,  Ilingsworth  again  faced  the  house  of 
Wilkinson. 

"  I'm  tricked— tricked !  "  he  cried.  "  Why  did 
I  give  up  so  easy;  why  didn't  I  force  the 
girl.  ..."  For  a  moment  he  checked  his  half- 
frenzied  words,  then  he  went  on :  "  Peter  V, 
Wilkinson,  I'll  even  up  with  you,  somehow,  yet! " 

In  a  few  moments  he  had  turned  the  nearest 
corner  and  disappeared. 

Back  in  the  Wilkinson  household,  Leslie,  al- 
most exhausted,  sank  into  a  chair.  As  she  sat 
there,  she  perceived  one  of  the  footmen  passing 
her,  bound  from  the  rear  to  the  outer  entrance. 

"Jeffries,"  cried  the  girl,  springing  up,  "tell 
Jordan  that  it  will  be  quite  unnecessary  to  mention 
Mr.  Ilingsworth's  call  to  anyone.  He  came  to 
see  me." 

"  Very  good,  ma'am,"  returned  the  footman, 
passing  on. 

"And  Jeffries,"  she  continued,  "have  you  any- 
thing to  do  just  now?" 

"Nothing,  Miss  Leslie,"  answered  the  man, 
"  except  to  obtain  the  latest  extras  for  Mrs.  Wil- 
kinson. She's  that  particular  about  it." 

"  Are  there  any  extras  now?  "  inquired  the  girl. 

The  footman  inclined  his  head  toward  the  en- 
trance to  the  house,  through  which  Ilingsworth 
had  just  made  his  exit. 

"Don't  you  hear  them,  Miss?"  he  asked. 


34          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

And  indeed,  at  that  moment,  the  yelping  of 
the  young  street  wolves  of  Manhattan  could 
plainly  be  heard.  Leslie  placed  her  hands  over 
her  ears  and  fled  incontinently  up  the  broad  stairs, 
disdaining  the  services  of  the  man  at  the  lift,  who 
rose  expectantly  as  she  started  past  him.  On 
reaching  the  first  landing,  she  met  Roy  Pallister — 
little  Pallister,  she  always  thought  of  him,  and 
noting  the  consternation  on  his  countenance,  she 
could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  laughter. 

"Why,  Mr.  Pallister,"  she  cried,  "you  look 
as  if  you  had  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon  I " 

In  a  moment  Pallister's  look  of  worriment 
changed  to  one  of  temporary  happiness.  He  was 
an  undersized  little  fellow,  doing  the  duties  of 
his  insignificant  career  with  a  gentle  manner.  He 
was  her  father's  household  secretary,  amanuensis, 
a  paid  servant,  it  is  true;  but  critics  of  the  Wil- 
kinson household  always  maintained  two  things: 
first,  that  there  was  only  one  gentlewoman  there — 
Leslie;  and  only  one  gentleman — Pallister.  Les- 
lie liked  him,  yet  she  could  not  eradicate  from  the 
humorous  part  of  her  nature  the  fact  that  Pallis- 
ter was  ever  like  a  shuttlecock,  dancing  his  digni- 
fied but  harried  attendance  now  upon  Peter  V. 
and  then  upon  another  member  of  the  household, 
whose  demands  were  even  more  exacting. 

"Have  you  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon,  Mr. 
Pallister?"  she  persisted. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          35 

Pallister  turned  his  eyes  away  from  hers:  he 
didn't  dare  to  look  at  Leslie  too  long.  To  him 
she  was  just  a  bit  too  bewildering.  After  a  time 
his  glance  crept  back  to  hers. 

'  Yes,  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  said  nervously, 
"  and  what's  more,  I've  got  to  come  back  directly 
and  face  the  cannon's  mouth  again." 

Leslie  touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder;  a 
thrill  passed  through  the  young  man's  frame. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said  smilingly,  "  I'm  going 
up  to  spike  the  cannon  for  you." 

On  reaching  the  second  floor  she  knocked  gently, 
but  persistently,  at  a  boudoir  door. 

"  Oh,  who  is  it  now?  "  came  in  a  petulant,  nasal 
voice  from  within.  "Come  in,  if  you're  coming; 
otherwise  stay  out !  "  And  an  expression  of  some- 
thing like  pain  crossed  the  girl's  face  as  she  en- 
tered. 

Sitting  up  in  bed  in  a  flowered-silk  kimona,  a 
lady  was  sipping  a  claret  cup.  Year  after  year, 
like  the  Wilkinson  mansion,  the  lineaments  and 
form  of  this  lady  had  been  portrayed  in  the  press 
throughout  the  country;  and  long  after  she  was 
entitled  to  any  claim  to  comeliness,  she  had  been 
heralded  as  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  universe. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  delicate  form — if  delicate 
form  she  had  ever  possessed — had  been  wholly 
obliterated  by  a  generous  layer  of  avoirdupois — 
lumps  wherever  the  lumps  were  the  least  needed. 


36          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  she  snapped. 

Leslie  groaned  inwardly  as  she  looked  at  the 
woman  before  her;  for  this  lady  of  leisure  was 
the  Maggie  Lane  mentioned  by  the  megaphone — 
Margaret  Lane  Wilkinson  now,  but  still  Maggie 
by  nature — and  her  step-mother !  The  girl's  eyes 
moistened  as  she  thought  of  her  own  mother  that 
she  had  known,  and  who  had  died  a  short  time 
ago.  For  in  the  case  of  Wilkinson  the  funeral 
baked  meats  had  almost  furnished  the  marriage 
feast. 

"Anything  I  can  do?"  asked  the  young  girl, 
forcing  up  the  pleasant  little  smile  that  was  always 
part  and  parcel  of  Leslie  Wilkinson. 

The  lady  of  the  flowered  kimona  did  not  re- 
spond at  once,  but  kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  the 
door. 

"I  told  Jeffries  to  get  those  extras  right  away 
— he's  been  gone  an  hour,"  she  complained. 

Leslie  could  not  suppress  a  smile  when  she  saw 
the  multitude  of  papers  that  bestrewed  the  bed 
and  floor,  and  before  she  could  speak,  the  elder 
woman  went  on,  between  sips  of  her  claret  cup, 
to  say: 

"  Oh,  the  disgrace  of  these  failures !  The  ter- 
rible charges  that  are  made!  I  simply  cannot 
stand  it!  A  mere  girl,  like  you,  cannot  appreci- 
ate the  strain  of  this  thing  on  my  nerves.  And 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          37 

everybody  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  strain  on 
Peter;  no  one  considers  poor  me " 

"Oh,  but  you  must  not  take  it  so  to  heart," 
said  the  girl  with  well-feigned  sympathy.  "  Every- 
body is  failing  now." 

"  But  I  have  looked  these  papers  through  and 
through,"  Mrs.  Peter  V.  went  on,  "  and  nowhere, 
nowhere  have  I  been  considered  at  all.  Why,  not 
one  paper  has  even  mentioned  my  name  to-day. 
For  a  month  not  one  of  them  has  published  a 
picture  of  me;  yet  they  are  full  of  pictures  of 
Peter  V.,  this  house,  and  of  the  Tri-State  Trust 
Company  offices.  It  makes  me  sick — nobody 
thinks  of  me." 

At  this  moment  the  footman  knocked  at  the 
door.  Leslie  stepped  forward  and  took  the  papers 
that  he  passed  in,  tossing  them  lightly  on  the 
bed. 

44  Oh !  Oh ! "  wailed  Mrs.  Peter  V.  as  her  eye 
rested  on  the  headlines.  "  The  Tri-State  has  gone 
up!  This  is  the  end — the  end  of  everything! 
Here,  Leslie,  you  take  this  paper,  and  I'll  take 
that — we'll  see  whether  there  isn't  something  in 
them  about  me." 

On  the  floor  below,  no  sooner  had  Leslie  left 
the  Den  than  there  was  a  rustle  behind  the  heavy 
curtains,  in  that  room,  and  presently  they  were 


38          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

parted,  and  then,  with  a  stealthy  movement  a 
woman  stepped  forth  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Madeline  Braine  looked  carefully  about  her, 
listened  for  an  instant,  and  then  advanced  still 
further  toward  the  door.  Her  attitude  was  watch- 
fulness itself. 

"His  daughter  Elinor,  a  girl  who  needs  pro- 
tection ! "  she  cried,  with  an  agitation  born  of 
fresh  events,  and  then  a  half-sob  broke  from  her 
lips.  "There  are  other  girls  who  should  have 
had  care  just  as  much — and  haven't  had  it." 

She  glanced  at  her  watch  and  started  forward 
once  again. 

"I  can't  wait!"  she  cried.  "Why  isn't  Peter 
Wilkinson  here?" 

For  a  moment  it  occurred  to  her  to  cross  the 
hall  to  the  reception-room,  and  from  there  to 
summon  a  servant  and  give  him  a  message.  She 
had  had  her  own  reasons,  in  the  first  instance,  for 
darting  into  Wilkinson's  Den  to  hide.  She  well 
knew  that  her  agreement  with  Wilkinson  forbade 
her  to  cross  his  threshold;  but  she  intended  to 
make  a  crisis  in  her  affairs  as  an  excuse  to  him, 
and  quite  naturally  decided  that  there  would  be 
much  less  danger  in  the  Den  of  her  being  discov- 
ered by  others  than  in  the  reception-room.  Now, 
there  were  reasons  why  she  must  not  be  found 
within  this  room:  the  interview  between  Ilings- 
worth  and  Leslie  Wilkinson  made  it  impossible. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  39 

And  she  started  to  leave,  but  suddenly  drew 
back. 

"  Somebody's  coming,"  she  whispered  to  her- 
self. And  scarcely  had  she  retreated  once  more 
behind  the  concealing  curtains  of  the  Den  when 
Jeffries  entered  with  an  armful  of  the  latest  ex- 
tras and  laid  them  down  upon  the  desk.  After 
that,  he  passed  out,  but  events  happened  with 
such  unusual  rapidity  that  Madeline  Braine  found 
herself  again  caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  behind 
the  heavy  curtains  in  the  room. 

"  It's  just  as  well,"  she  assured  herself,  as  she 
waited  there,  every  minute  expecting  to  get  a 
chance  to  escape;  but  as  it  turned  out,  it  was  not 
just  as  well  for  her. 

Alone  at  last  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  her 
own  apartments  at  the  top  of  the  house,  Leslie 
sat  for  some  moments  on  the  window-seat,  gazing 
out  over  the  Hudson  at  the  misty,  dusky  shore 
across  the  way. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  mused,  "  if  what  this  man 
Ilingsworth  says  is  true.  Is  it  possible  that  my 

father "  she  stopped  abruptly.  "  No,  no,  it 

can't  be  true,"  she  went  on;  "my  father 
wouldn't  .  .  .  ."  But  the  face  of  Giles  Ilings- 
worth rose  before  her,  and  she  found  herself 
searching  his  open,  honest  countenance  for  some 
loophole  of  escape.  Now  his  words  rang  in  her 


40          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ears,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  the  words  of  a 
man  who  knew.  .  .  -., 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  must  find  out  who  is  right, 
and  who  is  wrong !  I  must  know  about  my  father, 
and  what  he  has  done !  "  Presently,  she  leaped 
to  her  feet,  crossed  to  her  dressing-table  and  picked 
up  the  photograph  of  a  man — a  young  man  with 
a  square  chin  and  wonderful  eyes — so  she  thought 
— that  looked  her  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Eliot,"  she  said  softly,  to  the  picture,  "you're 
always  honest  with  me,  are  you  not?  You're 
honest  with  everybody.  I  wonder  if  you  will  find 
out  for  me — the  truth  about  my  father." 

Now  she  drew  the  photograph  nearer  to  her, 
and  her  eyes  grew  soft  and  tender,  and,  for  the 
time  being,  she  forgot  Ilingsworth  and  his  daugh- 
ter Elinor;  forgot  the  Tri-State  Trust  Company 
and  its  alleged  iniquities;  forgot  even  her  father, 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson. 

n  Eliot,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  I  wonder  what 
you  would  think  of  me,  if  you  knew  that  I  did 
this?"  Whereupon,  she  pressed  her  soft,  warm, 
young  face  against  the  pictured  one.  "  Maybe 
you'll  never  know,  though,"  she  went  on ;  "  maybe 
you'll  never  take  the  trouble  to  find  out." 

Leslie  laid  down  the  photograph  with  a  sigh, 
and,  retracing  her  steps  to  the  window,  was  just 
in  time  to  see  a  big  Mastodon  bring  up  at  the 
curb  in  the  street  below,  from  which  four  men 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          41 

alighted:  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  her  father,  look- 
ing very  much  exercised  and  troubled ;  Flomerf elt, 
his  confidential  man;  and,  lastly,  two  Pinkerton 
detectives,  recently-acquired  guards  who  were 
never  far  away  whenever  he  appeared  in  the  open. 


Ill 

"WHAT  the  deuce  is  that  machine  doing  in  front 
of  my  place?  "  were  the  words  that  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson spoke  as  his  eyes  lighted  upon  the  dark  blue 
limousine  that  had  been  standing  for  so  long  a 
time  before  his  house. 

"Whose  machine  is  it?"  answered  Flomerfelt, 
who  had  not  yet  recognised  it.  But  a  moment 
more  he  emitted  a  whistle  and  whispered  softly 
under  his  breath:  "By  George,  it's  hers!" 

Wilkinson's  eyes  bulged  with  anger. 

"What  does  she  mean  by  coming  here?"  He 
clutched  Flomerf elt's  shoulder  as  in  a  vise.  "  You 
don't  suppose  she's  come  to  see  my  wife,  do  you? 
What's  she  up  to?  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  even 
little  Pallister  see  her  for  the  world !  And  as  for 
Leslie!  Thunder  and  lightning,  if  Leslie  finds 
this  out — anything  but  that !  " 

Wilkinson  started  toward  the  blue  machine,  bent 
on  interviewing  the  chauffeur. 

"Look  here,  my  man "  he  began;  but  what- 
ever imprecations  he  intended  to  hurl  at  the 
chauffeur's  head  never  passed  his  lips,  for  then 
it  was  that  something  happened:  a  strange,  di- 
shevelled figure  dashed  suddenly  into  the  group, 
threw  itself  upon  Wilkinson  and  seized  him  by  the 

42 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          43 

throat.  With  almost  maniacal  energy  the  assail- 
ant forced  Wilkinson  up  against  the  blue  machine, 
and  digging  his  fingers  into  that  gentleman's  wind- 
pipe, he  cried: 

"Now,  Wilkinson,  I'm  going  to  even  up  mat- 
ters with  you ! " 

Wilkinson's  face  turned  blue — almost  as  blue 
as  the  machine — and  his  ^eyes  bulged  out  almost 
like  the  headlights  in  front  of  it. 

"  Help !  Help !  "  implored  Wilkinson,  tugging 
at  the  wrists  of  iron  that  held  him. 

His  call  was  quickly  answered.  And  in  an  in- 
credibly short  space  of  time,  the  Pinkerton  men 
had  broken  the  madman's  grip  and  held  him  fast. 
Wilkinson  quickly  regained  his  composure.  Then 
half-wondering,  half-fearful,  he  riveted  his  eyes 
upon  this  enemy  who  seemed  to  have  dropped 
from  the  skies,  while  Flomerfelt  came  out  from 
behind  the  touring  car  where  he  had  warily  awaited 
the  outcome  of  the  sudden  onslaught. 

"So  it  has  come  to  this!  Why,  Ilingsworth, 
what's  the  matter  with  you?"  ejaculated  Wilkin- 
son. "What  have  I  done  to  you?" 

But  before  Ilingsworth  could  answer,  the  Pink- 
erton men  had  hustled  him  into  the  Mastodon, 
and  were  holding  him  there. 

"Shall  we  surrender  him,  Mr.  Wilkinson?" 
they  asked. 

Wilkinson  glanced  at  Flomerfelt,  presumably, 


44          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

for  advice.  But  when  the  other  was  about  to 
speak,  Wilkinson  evidently  changed  his  mind,  for 
waving  him  aside  with  his  hand,  he  strode  to  the 
side  of  the  Mastodon  and  looking  Ilingsworth 
full  in  the  face,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  said: 

"Not  yet;  I  don't  want  the  authorities  to  have 
him  yet.  I  may  want  to  talk  to  him  first.  Suppose 
you  bring  him  into  the  house."  And  with  that, 
he  turned  on  his  heel,  and,  striding  through  the 
entrance  to  his  home,  past  his  two  footmen  who 
were  quaking  in  their  boots,  walked  into  the  arms 
of  his  daughter. 

"What's  the  matter,  father?"  she  cried. 

Wilkinson  brushed  her  aside,  for  the  business  of 
the  moment  was  too  weighty. 

"  Flomerfelt,"  he  directed,  in  a  low  voice,  "  tell 
them  to  take  Ilingsworth  into  a  reception-room — 
that  one  there,  and  hold  him  until  I  send  for  him." 

Leslie  took  her  father's  arm  and  led  him  into 
the  Den.  With  almost  a  mother's  anxious  gaze 
she  looked  him  over. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  inquired.  "I  saw — I 
could  just  make  out  something — somebody  attack- 
ing— it  was  all  so  quick — but  I  heard  your  voice, 
and  then  I  ran  downstairs.  But  you're  safe — 
safe !  "  and  she  patted  his  arm  affectionately.  "  Oh, 
what  was  the  trouble?" 

Wilkinson  sank  down  into  his  desk-chair. 

"Let  me  pull  myself  together  first,"  he  said. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          45 

His  heavy  form  sprawled  itself  across  the  seat, 
and  he  panted  with  the  unwonted  fright  he  had 
had.  Now  he  lit  a  black  cigar. 

"  Confound  it,  Leslie !  "  he  returned  at  length, 
"  the  man  scared  me — blamed  if  he  didn't.  There 
was  murder  in  his  eyes." 

Leslie  had  not  seen  Ilingsworth,  neither  did 
she  know  that  he  was  a  prisoner  in  another 
room. 

"Whose  eyes?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  "What 
man?" 

Wilkinson  turned  his  glance  full  upon  her. 

"A  man  you  never  heard  of,  girlie — a  man  you 
never  saw — a  business  man,  Giles  Ilings- 
worth  " 

He  got  no  further,  for  she  was  at  his  side  now, 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Then  he  did  mean  murder!  He  did,  I  know 
he  did ! "  she  exclaimed,  greatly  excited. 

Wilkinson  had  been  wiping  his  brow;  this  oper- 
ation ceased  with  a  start  and  he  searched  her 
face. 

"How  do  you  know  he  did,  girlie?"  he  asked 
suspiciously. 

At  that  instant  the  lean  and  cat-like  Flomerfelt 
entered  the  room  and  stood  beside  the  girl.  Im- 
mediately, with  a  feminine  aversion  written  on  her 
face,  Leslie  withdrew  and  stood  in  the  doorway, 
still  trembling  and  afraid. 


46          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  meant  murder?" 
persisted  Wilkinson. 

"  I'll  come  back  later,  father,  and  tell  you 
why,"  she  said,  leaving  the  room,  and  hastening 
toward  the  staircase. 

Flomerfelt  moved  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  and  watched  her  go,  then  noiselessly  re- 
traced his  steps,  and  seated  himself  opposite  the 
financier.  There  was  no  cringing  in  the  manner 
of  this  confidential  man  of  Wilkinson's;  on  the 
contrary,  his  attitude  toward  his  employer  was 
that  of  man  to  man. 

"  The  only  decent  thing  about  you,  Peter  V.," 
he  said  impudently  to  the  multimillionaire,  "  is 
your  daughter  Leslie." 

Wilkinson's  face  plainly  showed  his  annoyance, 
nevertheless  he  said: 

"  Flomerfelt,  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  leave 
my  daughter  Leslie  out  of  this — out  of  everything, 
you  understand?" 

Flomerfelt  smiled. 

"Leaving  her  out,  then,  I  will  revise  my  for- 
mer statement.  There  are  two  good  things  about 
you:  one  is  Flomerfelt,  your  very  necessary  con- 
fidant; the  other  is "  he  started  to  say  "your 

chiefest  luxury,  Miss  Madeline  Braine," — but  he 
didn't  say  it;  for  Wilkinson  brought  his  clenched 
hand  down  upon  the  desk  with  great  force. 

"  Come,  get  down  to  the  business  in  hand !  Re- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          47 

member  that  you  are  dealing  with  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson." He  paused,  and  then  added  with  a  smile 
full  of  meaning:  "  Despite  his  being  a  ruined  bank 
president." 

Flomerfelt  shook  off  his  air  of  sinister  sarcasm, 
squared  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  and  was  all  atten- 
tion. 

"  Now,  then,"  continued  Wilkinson,  "  what  are 
we  going  to  do  with — with  this  incubus  Ilings- 
worth?" 

"Jug  him,  Peter!  The  man  is  dangerous — 
he's  a  bad  one." 

Wilkinson  puffed  away  at  his  black  cigar.  This 
was  a  problem  and  he  liked  problems.  Ilings- 
worth  was  in  his  power,  and  Wilkinson  did  not 
intend  to  let  his  chance  slip  by.  Just  then  his 
eyes  chanced  to  light  on  the  scareheads  of  the 
extras  on  his  desk: 

TRI-STATE  TRUST  COMPANY  CLOSES  ITS  DOORS 

But  the  magnate  felt  no  sensation  on  reading 
them.  That  very  afternoon,  for  that  matter,  he 
had  seen  thousands  of  them  on  the  streets;  and 
so,  they  moved  him  not  at  all.  Nevertheless,  he 
tossed  one  to  Flomerfelt. 

"Pretty  serious  predicament,  eh,  Flomerfelt?" 
he  said  easily. 

Coolly,  Flomerfelt  rose,  reached  over  for  a 
cigar  and  lighted  it. 


48          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"There  are  only  two  men  in  this  city  who  can 
handle  a  situation  of  that  kind,"  he  answered 
significantly. 

Wilkinson  merely  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"And  these  two,"  Flomerfelt  continued,  "have 

got  to  work  together.  If  they  don't "  His 

eye  caught  the  other's  glance  and  held  it.  "  If 
they  don't,  chief,  the  devil  take  the  hindmost." 

Peter  V.  Wilkinson  laughed  until  he  was  red 
in  the  face. 

"You  blamed  upstart!"  he  burst  out.  "Do 
you  think  that  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  isn't  able  to 
go  it  alone?" 

"  I  know  he  isn't,"  emphatically. 

Wilkinson  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Why,  you  infernal  idiot ! "  he  shouted. 
"Who  conceived  the  scheme  of  transferring  fifty 
millions  of  securities  of  my  own  to  those  broken 
capitalists,  Ellenbogen,  Glackner  &  Gilroy,  and  of 
taking  over  a  hundred  millions  of  wild-cat  stocks ! 
Who  thought  of  having  the  stock — the  good 
stock,  on  the  books,  transferred  to  the  names  of 
these  three  men,  and  then  having  them  pass  it 
over  to  an  unknown  holder — Leslie  Wilkinson! 
And  who  thought  of  sending  these  three  men  to 
different  parts  of  Europe,  where  they  can't  be 
found!  Let  those  who  will,  ask  questions  of  me 
— you  know  what  answer  they'll  get!  Let  them 
ask  questions  of  me !  "  he  went  on,  swelling  in  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          49 

pride  of  generalship.  "  My  records  show  that 
I'm  ruined.  Let  them  ask  questions  of  Leslie 
Wilkinson — who's  got  the  stuff,  and  who  doesn't 
know  she's  got  it — what  will  they  find  out  ?  Who 
else  is  there  to  ask?  Three  inaccessible  old  fools 
who'll  stay  where  we  put  'em  until  it  all  blows 
over.  Who  conceived  that  scheme?  And  who 
framed  another  that  disposed  of  thirty-five  more 
millions  ?  Tell  me  that,  eh  ?  Was  it  you  ?  " 

Flomerfelt's  smile  was  a  sneer.  In  turn,  he 
rose  and  looked  his  chief  full  in  the  face,  his  own 
small,  ferret  eyes  alight  with  contempt. 

"  It  may  have  taken  a  good  man  to  conceive  the 
scheme,  but  it  took  a  better  man  to  put  these 
things  into  execution,  to " 

Wilkinson  laughed. 

"To  do  the  dirty  work,"  he  interposed,  con- 
temptuously. 

Flomerfelt  nodded. 

"  Have  it  that  way  if  you  will,  chief,"  he  as- 
sented. "  It's  dirty  work  any  way  you  may  put 
it.  However,  don't  you  forget  one  thing,  it  was 
I  that  did  it — and  doing  it,  I  did  what  no  one  else 
could  do." 

For  a  brief  interval  the  two  men  stood  glaring 
at  each  other.  It  was  Flomerfelt  who,  at  the  last, 
lowered  his  eyes. 

"Well,  have  it  so,  Flomerfelt,"  Wilkinson  was 
speaking  now,  "we  won't  quarrel.  Perhaps  we 


50          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

do  belong  together — at  any  rate,  you  get  pay 
enough.  .  .  ." 

"No,  not  enough,"  Flomerfelt  mused  half- 
aloud,  for  his  thoughts  had  travelled  through  the 
closed  door,  into  the  hall  without,  had  climbed  up 
the  stairs  and  were  centred  on  Leslie  Wilkinson  in 
the  room  above. 

Wilkinson  resumed  his  seat. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  with  Ilingsworth," 
he  began.  "That's  the  first  proposition.  You 
say  to " 

"Jug  him,"  finished  Flomerfelt.  "Take  the 
offensive.  Make  the  first  move." 

Wilkinson  snorted. 

"That's  where  your  'prentice  hand  shows  up, 
just  as  I  knew  it  would.  I'm  going  to  let  him  go." 

Flomerfelt  started. 

"What!"  he  ejaculated. 

Wilkinson  grinned.  Slowly  he  gathered  to- 
gether the  newspapers  littering  his  desk  and  de- 
posited them  in  the  waste-basket.  Then  he  turned 
to  Flomerfelt. 

"  Now,  you  whippersnapper  of  an  understudy," 
he  paused  a  moment,  "  the  reason  I'm  going  to  let 
him  go,  is  because  I'm  going  to  lay  the  blame  of 
this  whole  thing  on  Giles  Ilingsworth.  See?" 

Flomerfelt  looked  at  the  extras,  at  his  chief,  at 
the  walls,  the  hangings — now  still  as  death  they 
were — and  at  the  floor.  Then  he  rose  and  paced 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          51 

the  floor  with  that  noiseless  tread  of  his.  Finally 
he  stopped,  and  swinging  his  lithe  body  about, 
once  more  faced  his  chief. 

"By  George,  Wilkinson,  you're  great!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Ilingsworth  a  scapegoat!  How  did 
you  ever  think  of  it?" 

"  When  did  I  think  of  it  would  be  more  to  the 
purpose,"  returned  his  chief,  not  without  pride. 
"  I  thought  of  it  as  I  think  of  everything — in  a 
flash — while  you  were  trying  to  induce  me  to  sur- 
render him.  Somebody's  got  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  this — he's  the  new  blood  that's  wrecked  us — 
he  and  his  crowd,  so  why  not  he,  eh?  Why  not?  " 

Flomerfelt's  thin  lips  widened  into  a  diabolical 
grin. 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it,  Wilkinson?" 

His  chief  did  not  reply  immediately.  His  hesi- 
tation made  the  other's  grin  widen  all  the  more. 

"  I'll  have  to  work  that  out,  Flomerfelt,"  pres- 
ently he  said,  "but  I'll  do  it.  He  might  as  well 
smart  as  anyone  else.  Besides,  what  will  it 
amount  to,  anyway?  An  investigation — censure 

— a  few  bribes — and The  rest  of  us  can  go 

to  Europe  and  enjoy  ourselves  until  it's  blown 


over. 

Ci 


If  it  ever  blows  over,"   put  in   Flomerfelt. 
Then  he  stretched  out  his  arm  and  laid  his  long, 
lean  fingers  on  the  sleeve  of  Wilkinson's  coat. 
"  Peter  V.,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I'll  give 


52          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

you  credit  in  this,  as  well  as  in  other  things;  but 
let  me  tell  you  something:  while  you've  been 
mumbling  here,  I've  worked  your  idea  out — ; 
sketched  in  the  details." 

"  You  don't  say !  "  cried  Wilkinson.  "  Good 
boy !  Well  ?  "  And  he  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly. 

But  Flomerfelt  shook  his  head. 

"No,  chief,  I'll  work  it  out  myself.  But  I'll 
say  this  much,  I've  got  a  hold  on  nearly  every 
man  in  the  Tri-State  Trust  Company,  the  Inter- 
state also.  There  are  things  to  be  done,  things 
to  be  sworn  to,  and  only  I  know  how.  .  .  ." 
He  withdrew  his  hand.  "The  question  is,  Wil- 
kinson," he  went  on,  "am  I  to  get  good  pay? 
.  .  .  This  thing  is  more  serious  than  you  think. 
It  won't  blow  over,  take  my  word  for  it.  A  mil- 
lion people  in  three  States  are  up  in  arms;  what's 
more,  District  Attorney  Murgatroyd  is  up  in  arms, 
too." 

"You  get  paid  well  enough,  Flomerfelt,  I 
should  think." 

"  Not  well  enough,"  he  declared.  And  again 
his  thoughts  went  aloft  to  the  daughter  of  his 
chief. 

Wilkinson  touched  a  button;  in  silence  the  two 
men  waited  for  it  to  be  answered.  In  a  somewhat 
irritated  manner  Wilkinson  touched  it  again,  and 
thundered  out: 

"What's  become  of  the  servants?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          53 

Flomerfelt  leaned  over  in  alarm. 

"The  wires — the  wires  are  cut!  "  he  exclaimed. 
"The  telephone  is  disconnected,"  he  went  on,  his 
face  growing  ashen  with  the  fear  and  mystery  of 
it  all. 

Wilkinson's  excitement  was  evidenced  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  shook  his  finger  in  the  other's 
face,  called  him  a  fool,  and  ordered  him  to  go 
and  fetch  the  servants  that  they  might  explain  how 
the  thing  occurred.  And  he  ended  with:  "Go 
now,  be  quick  about  it  1 " 

At  the  door,  Flomerfelt  stopped.  In  the  en- 
trance was  Leslie. 

"  These  wires  have  been  tampered  with !  "  he 
cried  out  to  her.  "  Does  anybody  in  this  house 
know  how?" 

Leslie  ignored  the  question,  but  instead  she 
said: 

"  Mrs.  Wilkinson  wishes  to  speak  with  you, 
Mr.  Flomerfelt.  You  will  find  her  upstairs,  in 
her  boudoir. 

Flomerfelt  bowed. 

"  I'll  go  up  with  you  at  once,"  he  told  her;  but 
Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  you'd  better  go  alone.  I  know  about  the 
wires.  I  came  down  expressly  to  tell  father  about 
them." 

Flomerfelt  reddened  with  annoyance,  neverthe- 
less he  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  I  say,"  called  out  Wilkinson  after  him,  "  tell 


54          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

those  Pinkertons  to  drive  Ilingsworth  away  down- 
town— take  him  to  any  place  he  wants  to  go,  set 
him  loose.  If  he  runs  away,  you  understand,  it 
will  be  all  the  better  for  us.  And  if  he  doesn't, 
it  will  be  all  the  worse  for  him." 

"I'll  take  care  of  it,  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  said 
Flomerfelt,  adopting  the  prefix  that  he  used  in 
the  presence  of  a  third  party.  "The  plan  is 
yours;  the  details  belong  to  me." 

With  considerable  trepidation  Leslie  ap- 
proached her  father. 

"You're  not  going  to  set  that  Mr.  Ilingsworth 
free !  "  she  begged.  "  Father,  don't  do  it !  He's 
dangerous !  I  told  you  he  had  murder  in  his  mind 
< — I  saw  it  to-day." 

Little  by  little  Wilkinson  drew  from  her  the 
whole  story,  with  the  exception  of  her  father's 
terrible  arraignment  by  Giles  Ilingsworth;  and 
that,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  she  left  out  of  her 
recital. 

"  Come,  come,"  demanded  Wilkinson,  shrewdly 
reading  his  daughter's  face,  "you  haven't  told  me 
everything !  I  want  to  know  the  rest." 

The  girl  looked  away  as  she  said  falteringly: 

"The  rest  is  nothing — really,  there  is  nothing 
to  tell." 

"  If  it's  nothing,  then  you'd  better  tell  it  to  me 
anyway,"  he  persisted.  "  Come,  dear,  what  is  it 
that  you're  holding  back?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          55 

For  a  moment  that  seemed  minutes  to  her 
father,  Leslie  hid  her  face  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
did  not  speak.  Finally  she  broke  out  with: 

"Only  something  that  he  told  me  that  I  know 
is  false;  but  if  you  must  know,  I'll  tell  you  what 
he  said.  .  .  ." 

On  the  floor  above,  Mrs.  Peter  V.  Wilkinson, 
still  in  her  flowered-silk  kimona,  received  her  hus- 
band's confidential  man. 

"  Sit  there,"  she  directed,  pointing  to  a  chair 
close  to  the  sofa  on  which  now  she  was  reclining, 
propped  up  by  numberless  bright-hued  silken  pil- 
lows. 

Flomerfelt  did  as  he  was  bid,  not  omitting  to 
kiss  the  hand  that  she  had  extended  to  him. 

"  Now,  Flomerfelt,"  she  began,  an  anxious  look 
on  a  face  that  was  usually  expressionless,  "  I  want 
to  know  just  where  I  stand  in  all  this.  For  if 
there's  going  to  be  a  crash,  I  want  to  know 
precisely  what  I've  got — that  is,  how  much 
money?" 

Flomerfelt  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"You  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  it  has  not 
been  the  custom  of  Peter  V.  to  give  money  to  his 
wife,  rather,  I  should  say,  to  put  money  in  her 
name.  Like  every  other  business  man,  he  has 
always  needed  ready  cash,  and " 

"But  how  do  I  stand?"  she  interrupted,  im- 


56          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

patiently.  "What  have  I  got?  Tell  me;  I  must 
know." 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  there  are  your  jewels," 
he  declared.  "They  are  worth  thousands — per- 
haps hundreds  of  thousands." 

"And  this  house  stands  in  my  name,  doesn't 
it?"  she  asked,  brushing  away  the  question  of  a 
few  hundred  thousands. 

"It  does,"  was  his  brief  answer,  but  without 
enthusiasm. 

"And  the  house  is  worth  at  least  ten  million 
dollars,  isn't  it?"  she  went  on,  with  some 
show  of  satisfaction.  "That's  what  it  cost  to 
build." 

Flomerfelt  shook  his  head. 

"  I  should  say  that  it  cost  much  less." 

"  What  1 "  she  gasped.  "  Why,  everybody  says 
it  did.  The  papers  .  .  ." 

Flomerfelt  thought  a  moment. 

"  I  should  think  four  million  was  an  outside 
figure,"  he  declared.  "I  know  Peter  V.  doesn't 
consider  it  worth  more  than  that." 

"  Well,  four  million  is  something,  at  any  rate," 
she  returned,  mollified.  "  I  can  live  on  that." 

Flomerfelt  began  to  pace  the  room. 

"  The  difficulty  with  it,  Mrs.  Peter  V.,  is  that 
it  is  mortgaged.  The  trust  companies  hold  mort- 
gages on  it  to  the  extent  of  five  million  dollars, 
at  least." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          57 

Mrs.  Wilkinson  reached  forth  and  drew  him 
back  into  his  seat. 

"Do  sit  down,  Flomerfelt ! "  she  cried;  "and 
don't  be  a  fool!  What  do  you  mean  by  telling 
me  that  the  property  isn't  worth  more  than  four 
million,  and  that,  notwithstanding  that,  the  trust 
companies  have  loaned  five  million  on  it — more 
than  its  value?  What  trust  company  would  do  a 
thing  like  that?" 

Flomerfelt's  gaze  took  in  the  lady  of  the  flow- 
ered-silk kimona  from  the  sole  of  her  foot  to  the 
top  of  her  head. 

"  Um — such  trust  companies  as  the  Interstate 
and  Tri-State."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
added:  "With  such  a  man  as  Giles  Ilingsworth 
handling  the  reins " 

"  Giles  Ilingsworth !  "  she  broke  in.  "  Who  is 
Giles  Ilingsworth?  Why,  I  never  heard  of  him." 

Flomerfelt  looked  at  her  in  well-feigned  aston- 
ishment. 

"You  never  heard  of  Giles  Ilingsworth!  He 
was  the  power  behind  the  throne — the  man  who 
wrecked  the  companies — who  did  more,  who 
wrecked  Peter  V.  Wilkinson."  He  made  a  move- 
ment to  go.  "  There  is  nothing  further  I  can  do 
for  you,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Peter  V. ?" 

For  the  briefest  of  moments  the  lady  gazed  at 
him  in  silent  contemplation.  Then  motioning  him 
again  to  sit  beside  her, — which  he  did, — she  drew 


58          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

his  head  down  close  to  her  lips,  and  patted  it 
affectionately. 

" Flomerfelt,  you're  a  good  friend  of  mine?" 
she  said. 

Wilkinson's  confidential  man  straightened  up. 

"That  depends  on  how  good  a  friend  you  are 
of  mine,"  he  answered,  looking  her  full  in  the 
face. 

The  eyes  of  Margaret  Lane  Wilkinson  nar- 
rowed. 

"  You  do  your  best  to  see  that  I  don't  come  cut 
at  the  little  end  of  the  horn,  Flomerfelt — take 
care  of  my  interests,  even  against " 

"Even  against  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,"  breathed 
Flomerfelt. 

"Even  against  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,"  breathed 
the  woman.  There  was  a  pause,  and  presently 
she  added:  "On  every  occasion,  no  matter  what 
the  question,  I  shall  agree  with  you." 

"You  forget  to  take  into  consideration  that 
there's  a  girl  named  Leslie  Wilkinson,  who " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  concluding  gesture. 

"No,  not  for  one  moment  have  I  forgotten 
her,"  she  affirmed.  "  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  Leslie  has  enough  to  keep  us  both." 

Flomerfelt  bent  over  her. 

"It's  a  bargain,"  he  announced.  "We'll  seal 
it  with  a  kiss." 

"Why,   Mr.  Flomerfelt,   I  never  have  kissed 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          59 

anybody  except  Peter  V.,"  she  simpered,  blushing 
all  the  while. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  told  her  on  leaving, 
and  passing  through  the  door,  closed  it  gently 
behind  him.  On  the  second  landing  he  stopped 
and  thought  a  while.  "Not  a  bad  scheme,  that 
scheme  of  hers,"  he  mused  to  himself.  "  She 
doesn't  altogether  realise  that  if  the  time  ever 
comes  when  we  fight  Wilkinson,  she  and  I,  that 
we  will  be  fighting  a  man  still  worth  a  hundred 
million  dollars.  At  any  rate,"  he  concluded,  "my 
game  is  first  to  fight  for  Wilkinson,  and  then — 
against  him." 

Meanwhile,  in  her  boudoir,  the  lady  had  has- 
tened to  the  mirror  to  contemplate  her  fairness. 

"  He's  not  such  a  bad  chap,  after  all,  that  Flom- 
erfelt,"  she  acknowledged  to  herself. 


IV 

PETER  V.  WILKINSON  in  the  Den  below  was 
having  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  with  his  daugh- 
ter Leslie.  For,  truth  to  tell,  there  was  no  per- 
son in  the  universe  whose  judgment  he  dreaded 
more  than  the  judgment  of  this  girl  who  sat  be- 
fore him:  it  was  his  one  passion  to  appear  well 
in  her  eyes.  He  had  listened,  with  keen  interest, 
to  what  she  had  to  say,  invariably  seeking  her 
glance,  at  times  leaning  forward  with  unusual  in- 
tentness  in  order  not  to  lose  a  single  word.  Time 
and  time  again  her  words,  unintentionally  it  is 
true,  stung  him  to  the  quick.  And  yet,  he  had 
not  even  gulped  down  his  emotion.  He  had  faced 
her,  quiet,  calculating,  with  a  countenance  at  times 
interested,  at  times  amused.  Not  once  had  he 
interrupted  her;  not  once  apologised.  At  the 
start  he  had  wondered  just  what  he  should  say 
when  she  had  finished,  had  thought  of  denials,  of 
indignation,  of  calling  on  the  absent  accuser  for 
his  proofs;  but  as  her  tale  unfolded,  he  merely 
continued  to  chew  the  black,  unlighted  cigar  that 
he  held  in  his  mouth. 

"Have  you  told  me  all?"  he  asked,  glancing 
up  at  the  high  window  with  its  leaded  panes. 

The  girl,  shamefaced,  downcast,  because  of  her 
'doubts  of  her  father,  flushed  and  nodded  a  "  yes." 

60 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          61 

Wilkinson  smiled,  and  leaning  across  the  table, 
looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  Girlie,"  he  told  her,  suavely,  "  you  know  I'm 
glad  you  told  me  this.  I  want  you  to  be  just  as 
frank  in  telling  me  everything  else  that  bothers 
you — especially  about  myself.  I'm  glad  you  told 
me  this,"  he  repeated,  "because,  because  it's 
true." 

The  girl  jumped  up  from  her  seat,  and  ex- 
claimed incredulously: 

"  True !     Father,  it  can't  be  true !  " 

He  waved  her  back  again  to  her  chair,  took  a 
fresh  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  then  said  squarely: 

"  It's  the  Gospel  truth.  With  just  one  excep- 
tion— an  immaterial  correction  that  I  want  to 
make — what  you  have  said  is  fact,  only  you've  got 
the  wrong  sow  by  the  ear." 

"The  what!"  stammered  the  girl. 

Wilkinson  waved  a  deprecating  hand. 

"  I  should  have  said  that  your  story  is  all 
right,  but  it's  told  about  the  wrong  man,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

Leslie's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Then  you  mean  to  say " 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  interrupted  her  father  grimly, 
"that  the  man  who  concocted  that  very  clever 
scheme  was  not  myself,  but  quite  another  person." 

"  You  don't  mean  Mr.  Flomerfelt?  "  she  put  in 
quickly. 


62 

Wilkinson  rose,  his  eyes  blazing  with  righteous 
indignation. 

"Who  understands  the  methods  of  a  thief  bet- 
ter than  a  thief !  Who  can  tell  you  how  to  rob  a 
bank  so  well  as  the  thug  who  robbed  it!  Leslie, 
the  man  who  tried  that  scheme,"  he  went  on  with 
great  emphasis,  "  and  who,  trying  it,  dragged  us 
all  to  ruin,  is  the  man  who  told  you  his  story  in 
this  room  to-day.  It  is  Giles  Ilingsworth  of  the 
Tri-State  Trust  Company." 

Leslie  fell  back  before  him  in  astonishment. 

"  I — I  can't  believe  it,"  was  all  she  could  say. 

Wilkinson  laughed  gently,  generously. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  it,  girlie.  But  let 
me  ask  you  a  question :  A  year  ago,  did  you  ever 
hear  my  trust  companies  questioned?  was  there 
any  doubt  of  the  integrity  of  the  Interstate  and 
Tri-State? — you  know  there  wasn't.  Well,  thir- 
teen months  ago  we  took  on  this  Giles  Ilingsworth 
— new  blood,  you  understand — who  brought  in  a 
whole  lot  of  new  bloods  with  him.  We  didn't 
understand  then  that  he  was  a  get-rich-qulck  prop- 
osition." Wilkinson  chuckled  in  spite  of  his  indig- 
nation. "We  believed,  rather,  that  he  was  an 
honest,  sober-minded,  experienced  chap,  solid  and, 
well,  I  thought  I  could  take  my  ease,  thought  I 
had  a  man  who  would  run  things  right  and  let 
me  have  the  fun  I've  earned  so  hard.  I  let  him 
go  his  gait.  And  what  did  he  try  to  do  for  us? 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  63 

Just  what  he  accused  me  of  doing  this  after- 
noon." 

Wilkinson  sank  into  his  chair  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  Leslie  darted  around  the 
corner  of  the  big  desk  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him. 

"  I  knew — I  knew "  she  sobbed  in  her  joy. 

She  pressed  her  young,  fair  face  against  his  griz- 
zled jowl.  "  My  father  .  .  ."  she  whispered 
softly  to  him,  as  though  to  some  lover,  "my 
father,  will  you  believe  that  I  never  really  doubted 
you  ?  It  sounded  so  true  on  the  instant " 

Wilkinson  drew  her  to  his  knee  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  believed  him,  girlie,"  he 
said  after  a  while.  "  Why  shouldn't  he  fool  you, 
when  he  fooled  your  old  father." 

The  girl  still  clung  to  him,  but  Wilkinson  felt 
the  strain  beginning  to  tell,  felt  that  his  face  was 
growing  ashen  with  fatigue,  and  now  that  it  was 
over  he  needed  solitude.  So  he  placed  her  lightly 
on  her  feet,  and  tapping  her  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder,  said: 

"  Run  along  now,  girlie.  And  on  your  way 
out  you  might  tell  Jordan  that  I'm  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed for  fifteen  minutes — not  even  by  that  Flom- 
erfelt,  who  seems  to  be  wandering  around  upstairs 
in  our  private  apartments.  That  man  gets  on  my 
nerves  so  that  I  can't  think." 

After  Leslie  had  gone,  for  some  moments  Wil- 


64          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

kinson,  in  silence,  puffed  away  at  his  black  cigar. 
Then,  with  considerable  deliberation,  he  rose, 
went  over  to  the  door,  and  locked  and  bolted  it. 
Absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  he  remained  stand- 
ing there  for  a  long  time.  When  he  turned 
back  toward  the  desk,  a  woman  stood  there, 
facing  him — a  woman,  young,  tall,  slender,  with 
very  dark  hair  and  dark  blue  eyes,  a  woman  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  hope  and  trouble  in  her 
eyes. 

Wilkinson's  face  paled;  he  was  angry  through 
and  through.  Nevertheless  he  struggled  to  ap- 
pear calm. 

"  Confound  it,  Madeline,"  he  said  tactfully, 
"  I  forgot  all  about  you.  This  blamed  excite- 
ment put  it  all  out  of  my  head."  But  in  the  next 
breath  his  manner  changed,  and  he  burst  out  with : 
"  What  the  deuce  is  your  car  doing  at  my  door?  " 

"  Your  car,  not  mine,"  she  reminded  him  gently. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  happens  to  be  yours,"  he  corrected,  "  for  I 
gave  it  to  you,  didn't  I?" 

"We  won't  go  into  that,"  wearily  she  replied. 

Wilkinson  looked  her  sternly  in  the  eye. 

"We'll  cut  out  the  question  of  ownership. 
What's  more  to  the  point,  is,  what  the  devil  you're 
doing  in  my  house?  If  you  wanted  to  see  me, 
why  didn't  you  wait  for  me  to  come  to  you?  My 
wife  is  upstairs,"  he  went  on  severely,  "  and  my 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          65 

daughter  all  around  the  place.  They  probably 
both  know  you,  even  though  they  don't  know. 
.  .  .  You  might  have  waited " 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,"  she  answered,  faltering. 
"  I — I  had  to  see  you,  and  I  couldn't  wait.  Do 
you  suppose  I  would  have  come  here — to  your 
home — if  there  hadn't  been  some  urgency  about 
it.  I  wrote;  you  did  not  answer." 

"The  Tri-State  kept  me  on  the  jump,"  he  half 
apologised.  "  I  had  no  time  to  read  love  let- 
ters  " 

"Love  letters?  Indeed!"  she  interjected,  and 
then  went  on :  "I  called  at  the  Trust  Company 
office  to  see  you,  sent  messages,  called  you  up  on 
the  'phone,  but  to  no  avail.  I  had  to  see  you 
even  at  the  risk  of  your  displeasure.  Besides,  no* 
one  has  seen  me  but  you." 

Wilkinson  started. 

"  You've  been  here  in  this  room  all  the  time — • 
what?" 

"  Behind  those  curtains,"  she  informed  him, 
emphasising  her  words  with  a  nod  toward 
them. 

Wilkinson  advanced  on  the  woman  as  if  he 
were  about  to  strike  her,  for  now  he  knew  that 
she  had  been  spying  upon  him,  had  been  a  wit- 
ness to  Flomerfelt's  confidences,  had  listened  to 
the  colloquy  between  Leslie  and  himself;  but, 
making  a  great  effort,  he  checked  his  mad  im- 


66          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

pulse,  and,  instead,  endeavoured  to  make  no  point 
whatever  of  her  presence  there.  He  knew  Made- 
line Braine's  comprehension  of  business  schemes 
was  nil.  To  direct  her  attention  to  anything  she 
had  heard  would  be  unwise. 

"You  couldn't  have  chosen  a  better  place,"  he 
told  her  genially. 

And  then  it  was  that  suddenly  something 
seemed  to  snap  within  his  brain.  The  terrible 
excitement  of  the  past  few  weeks  was  beginning 
to  tell  on  him;  a  wild  yearning  to  escape  all  fur- 
ther responsibility,  to  rove  free,  careless,  reckless, 
took  possession  of  him.  The  woman  before  him 
was  lovely  to  look  upon,  he  liked  her,  and  why 
not  chuck  the  whole  game,  so  he  termed  it,  take 
her  away  with  him,  anywhere,  to  South  America, 
to  the  ends  of  the  world? 

"Why  not?"  he  exclaimed,  touching  her  on 
the  shoulder. 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  surprised. 

"  I  say,  Madeline,"  he  went  on,  happily,  "  I've 
been  so  busy  of  late  that  I  haven't  seen  as  much 
of  you  as  I  would  have  liked.  Besides,  you  were 
good  enough  to  be  out  the  last  two  times  I  looked 
you  up.  Do  you  know,"  he  was  close  to  her  now, 
his  hot  breath  upon  her  face,  "  I  don't  think  I 
ever  loved  you  quite  as  much  as  now.  Suppose 
I  take  a  rest  from  business,  and  we'll  take  a  ten- 
days'  trip  in  the  Marchioness.  We'll  have  a  bully 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          67 

good  time !  Come,  Madeline,  say  the  word,  and 
I'll  do  it." 

Madeline  eluded  his  amorous  embrace,  and  slip- 
ping to  the  side  of  the  desk  placed  upon  it  a  small 
black  bag. 

"  One  of  the  things,  Peter  V.,"  she  said  quietly, 
"  I  came  for,  was  to  bring  these  back." 

Wilkinson  looked  at  the  bag  inquisitively.  He 
wondered  what  surprise  she  had  in  store  for  him, 
and  smilingly  proceeded  to  open  it. 

"Jewels!  "  he  exclaimed,  eyeing  her  for  a  mo- 
ment in  uncertainty;  and  the  next  moment  his  hand 
brought  forth  a  handful  of  rings. 

"Yes,  those  and  the  automobile,"  she  faltered, 
forcing  the  words  out,  "  I  want  to  give  them  back 
to  you." 

The  man  broke  suddenly  into  a  good-natured, 
affectionate  laugh. 

"  You've  been  reading  the  papers,  I  see,  and 
thought  the  old  man  was  down  and  out.  You 
were  going  to  put  up  your  jewels  and  truck  to 

help  me  out?  Well,  I'll  be "  He  caught  her 

hand  impulsively.  "  Say,  Madeline,  you're  a  good 
sort,  and  no  mistake  about  it ! "  And  now,  snap- 
ping the  little  bag  together,  he  passed  it  back  to 
her.  "  But  you're  all  wrong,  my  dear,  I'm  not 
strapped — not  much!  This  is  between  ourselves, 
though,  understand.  You  keep  your  jewels,  and 
the  car,  too.  There's  many  a  good  time  coming 


68  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

to  us  yet.  Don't  you  worry,  now — and  don't  for- 
get that  I  appreciate  your  goodness  to  me.  I  do, 
indeed." 

"You  don't  understand  me,"  she  said,  retreat- 
ing under  his  advances.  "  I  brought  these  back 
to  you,  because  I'm  going  to  break  with  you. 
I " 

Wilkinson  looked  at  her  dumbfounded. 

"Break  with  me!  What?  Surely  you're  jok- 
ing. Why,  no  woman  ever  broke  with  Peter  V. 
Wilkinson  voluntarily.  I've  broken  with  a  score 
or  more,  but  this  is  a  new  one  on  me.  Break 
with  me?  What  for?"  He  leaned  back  against 
his  desk. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  say;  the  girl  had 
spoken  in  finality.  She  drew  herself  up  to  her 
full  height  and  looked  down  upon  him.  And  as 
she  stood  there  in  all  her  slenderness,  she  had 
never  seemed  more  beautiful  to  him. 

"  I  think  I  understand  now,"  presently  he  said, 
white  with  anger.  "You  really  thought,  like  the 
rest,  that  I  was  a  sinking  ship;  and  you  were  go- 
ing to  desert  me,  like  the  rats,  before  I  sank. 
That's  the  idea,  is  it?  Well,  you're  mightily  mis- 
taken, my  girl."  And  now  he  held  out  his  hand 
to  her  in  appeal.  "  You  don't  want  me  to  prove 
that  I'm  as  sound  as  a  dollar,  do  you?  For  I  can 
and  will."  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  her  that 
he  had  all  his  money  stowed  away.  "  I  have, 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          69 

for  a  fact,"  he  concluded;  "but  this  is  in  confi- 
dence. And  now  you  won't  leave  me,  will  you? 
Somehow,  I  can't  let  you  go." 

"  Peter,  I  thought  I  might  be  able  to  do  this 
without  telling  you  the  truth,"  she  said,  with  a 
note  almost  of  tenderness  in  her  voice.  "  But  I 
see  I've  got  to  make  myself  plain  to  you.  I'm 
going  to  break  with  you  for  the  reason  that — 
that  there's  someone  else." 

The  words  fell  dully  on  his  ears. 

"...  Someone  else,"  he  repeated.  He 
looked  at  her  long  and  searchingly  before  con- 
tinuing: 

"But  how  can  there  be  anyone  else?  I've  got 
all  the  money  that  there  is  in  little  old  New 

York!  What  more  do  you  want?  Who  else " 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply:  "It  isn't 
Wilgerot?  No?  Then  it's  Debevoise?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Look  here,  Madeline,  it  isn't  that  Dumont 
Mapes?  "  he  cried.  "You  wouldn't  shake  me  for 
a  rake  like  that,  would  you?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  who  it  is,"  was  all  the  girl 
would  say. 

"But  I  want  to1  know,"  insisted  the  man. 
"  You've  got  to  tell  me." 

"  If  you  must  know,  then,  it  is  a  man  I  love — * 
a  man  I'm  going  to  marry,"  she  answered  softly. 

Wilkinson  returned  to  his  desk,  to  a  fresh  cigar. 


70          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

This  was  another  problem,  and  problems  were  in 
his  line,  it  seemed. 

"  You're  going  to  marry  somebody  rich,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  at  length. 

A  smile  crossed  her  face. 

"  Somebody  poor,"  she  answered. 

"  Poor !  Why  in  heaven's  name  should  you 
marry  somebody  that's  poor?" 

"  Peter,  I  told  you  I  loved  him,"  she  repeated, 
still  smiling. 

Wilkinson  was  conscious  of  a  curious,  indefin- 
able sensation;  an  emotion  that  heretofore  had 
Tbeen  foreign  to  his  nature. 

"And — and,"  he  stammered,  battling  with  this 
new  sensation,  "he  loves  you,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  know  he  does,"  she  answered. 

The  millionaire  puffed  silently. 

"  He  must  love  you,"  he  went  on  at  length,  in 
brutal  tones,  "to — to  forgive  all  this."  And 
stretching  his  arms  wide  into  a  circle  that  included 
her  and  himself,  he  added :  "  He's  willing  to  for- 
get the  past?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  But  on  her  face  was 
a  death-like  pallor. 

"  Ah ! "  he  cried,  quickly  noting  her  change  of 
colour.  "  Then  he  doesn't  know !  " 

No  one  better  than  Madeline  Braine  could  bet- 
ter realise  the  full  import  of  this  sneer.  Advanc- 
ing toward  him,  her  limbs  dragging  against  her 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          71 

skirts,  giving  her  the  appearance  of  a  woman 
struggling  forward  on  her  knees,  she  caught  at 
one  corner  of  the  desk  and  leaned  against  it,  cry- 
ing: 

"  Peter,  I  love  this  man.  You  won't — why 
should  he  know " 

"Why  shouldn't  he?"  was  the  man's  cruel  an- 
swer. "  You  love  him  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  you  under- 
stand— we're  going  away — going  West,  never  to 
come  back.  If  he  doesn't  know,  all  will  be 
well  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  so  everything  is  going  to  be  lovely," 
grinned  Peter,  "until  he  finds  out.  But  when  he 
finds  out?  What  then ?  " 

For  a  long  time  she  pleaded  with  him,  while 
he,  lolling  back  comfortably  in  his  chair,  leisurely 
blew  rings  of  smoke  in  the  air.  Finally  he  rose, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"You're  sure,  Madeline,  that  you've  made  up 
your  mind  to  leave  me?  Sure?" 

For  answer,  the  girl  inclined  her  head. 

Wilkinson  frowned. 

"  This  interview  is  at  an  end.  From  now  on, 
madam,  we'll  deal  at  arm's  length."  Then  he 
added,  laughing  brutally:  "Until  you  find  it  de- 
sirable to  come  back  again  to  me."  He  unlocked 
the  door  and  opened  it  sufficiently  to  permit  her 
to  pass.  "  Good-day." 


72          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Without  a  word  she  passed  out  and  down  the 
hall.  At  the  entrance  she  found  Jordan,  who  rose 
and  bowed. 

"Tell  my  man,"  she  ordered,  pointing  to  the 
blue  limousine  without,  "that  he  need  wait  no 
longer — that  I  shall  remain  here  to-night." 

Jordan's  heart  popped  into  his  mouth  at  this 
unexpected  declaration.  With  difficulty  he  asked 
her  to  repeat  her  message,  after  which  he  stepped 
out  to  the  curb  and  delivered  it.  And  it  was  not 
until  the  machine  started  up  and  had  gathered 
speed  for  its  homeward  journey  that  she  gave  the 
order  to  the  footman  to  open  the  door  for  her. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  the  footman  cheerfully 
complied,  and  bowed  her  out. 

"  First  she  said  she  was  going  to  stay  all  night, 
and  then  she  said  she  wasn't,"  he  repeated  rhyth- 
mically, "  and  now  I  wonder  where  the  devil  she's 
gone?" 

Madeline  Braine  was  hardly  out  of  hearing 
when  Wilkinson  sent  post-haste  for  Flomerfelt. 

"  Flomerfelt,"  he  cried,  the  minute  that  worthy 
entered  the  room,  "  I've  got  a  new  job  for  you. 
Forget  the  Tri-State, — it's  trivial,  compared  with 
this, — and  find  out  the  name  of  the  man  Madeline 
Braine  is  going  to  marry." 

"  Marry !  "  gasped  Flomerfelt. 

Wilkinson  clutched  him  by  the  wrist,  and  con- 
tinued: "And  when  you've  found  out  his  name, 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          73 

find  the  man.  And  when  you  find  the  man,  but- 
tonhole him.  .  .  ." 

'"  Buttonhole  him ! "  echoed  the  astonished 
Flomerfelt.  "Don't  you  mean  throttle  him?" 

"  Buttonhole  him,"  repeated  Wilkinson  sav- 
agely, "  and  then  tell  him  all  about  the  girl  he 
loves — and  me." 

A  few  days  later,  alone  in  a  bare,  hall-bedroom, 
on  the  east  side  of  the  big  city,  Madeline  Braine 
sat  staring,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  into  the  gloom 
without.  Well  might  she  reflect  that  nothing  but 
a  miracle  could  save  her  now;  well  might  her 
reason  totter  at  the  thought  of  what  life  held  for 
her  in  the  future.  The  letter  in  her  lap  read: 

.  .  .  There's  no  use  in  my  seeing  you 
again.  I  take  it  from  your  silence  that  you  prefer 
not  to  explain  what  I  have  learned  about  you — 
what  I  have  proved  to  myself  to  be  a  fact — the 
truth  of  your  relations  with  Peter  V.  Wilkinson. 
I  start  West  to-night. 

"Yours, 

"H.  T." 


IN  Mrs.  Pallet-Searing's  house  on  Fifth  Avenue 
was  an  authorised  hiding-place  intended,  evi- 
dently, for  no  more  than  two  persons,  which  was 
reached  by  a  short  journey  through  the  interior 
flower-garden:  an  undignified  plunge  between 
some  half-dozen  palm-tubs,  and  a  short  ascent  up 
a  wide,  circular  staircase. 

In  this  haven, — known  only  to  the  initiated, — 
a  week  later,  Eliot  Beekman  and  Leslie  Wilkin- 
son had  been  sitting  for  some  time. 

"  We  must  have  been  here  three  hours ! "  the 
girl  suddenly  exclaimed  in  tones  of  deep  contri- 
tion. "  Half  the  people  must  have  gone.  I've 
deliberately  cut  every  man  on  the  last  half  of  my 
card,"  she  rattled  on,  "  thereby  completely  ruin- 
ing my  chances  of  ever  marrying  any  of  them; 
and  besides,"  she  concluded  limply,  "what  will 
Mrs.  Pallet-Searing  have  to  say  .  .  ." 

"How  did  we  get  here,  anyway?"  questioned 
the  young  man. 

"  I  led  the  way,"  confessed  the  girl,  opening 
wide  her  eyes,  and  glancing  daringly  into  his. 
"  Mrs.  Pallet-Searing  says  that  this  place  is  a 
trap;  and,  that  Pallet-Searing  says,  that  she's  a 
terribly  designing  woman.  She  says  that  he  says 

74 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          75 

that  more — more  matches  have  been  made  on  ac- 
count of  this  moonlit  spot  than  in  any  other  place 
in  the  Borough  of  Manhattan." 

The  face  of  Eliot  Beekman  flushed,  his  eyes 
were  unnaturally  bright.  If  only  he  had  dared, 
with  his  strong  right  arm  he  would  have  drawn 
the  dainty  head  of  Leslie  Wilkinson  down  on  his 
shoulder  and  would  have  kissed  her  then  and 
there.  But  he  understood  the  girl  too  well — or 
thought  he  did. 

"A  match-making  cosy-corner,"  he  mused. 
"  How  many  others  have  you  fetched  here  before 
— have  preceded  me?" 

Leslie  laughingly  rose  and  stood  looking  down- 
upon  him. 

"  You're  quite  the  first,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Beek- 
man," she  answered,  still  smiling. 

"Are  you — are  you  sure?"  he  faltered,  becom- 
ing suddenly  serious. 

"  Quite  sure,"  she  answered,  catching  his  mood".. 

Beekman  rose,  the  flush  deepening  on  his  face. 
His  breath  came  fast. 

"Why,    then "    he    began;    but    the    girl 

quickly  held  up  her  hand. 

"  Now,  don't  be  silly,  don't ! "  she  pleaded. 
"We've  been  foolish  enough  as  it  is.  People  will 
talk,  you  know;  they'll  say  that  it's  the  get-rich- 
quick  strain  in  me  that  makes  me  do  these  ill-bred, 
extraordinary  things.  But  indeed  it  is  not.  My 


76          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

own  mother,  Mr.  Beekman,"  she  went  on  soberly, 
"was  a  charming  woman — a  lady  who  would 
never  have  associated  with  some  of  the  people  that 
one  meets  here,  even.  It  must  be  the  pure  devil- 
try in  me  that  makes  me  do  some  things — pure 
deviltry,  I  assure  you,  that's  all." 

"  To  lead  some  impecunious  devil  to  the  most 
exclusive  match-making  place  in  America,  and 
then  refuse  to  ...  Pure  deviltry!  I  should 
think " 

Leslie's  brow  wrinkled. 

"But  Mrs.  Pallet-Searing?  What  is  she  going 
to  say?"  broke  in  the  girl. 

"  Say !  Say  nothing  at  all,  of  course.  She  and 
Pallet-Searing  must  have  occupied  similar  cosy- 
corners,  I  suppose,  years  ago,"  he  answered,  with 
a  smile. 

"I  don't  quite  see  the  application,"  returned 
Leslie,  puzzled.  "Very  likely  they  had  the  right: 
they  were  engaged,  and  afterwards  married." 

"True,"  said  Beekman,  his  eyes  feasting  on 
her.  "  And  I  don't  understand  why  history  can't 
repeat  itself  right  here  and  now.  The  fact  is, 
your  hostess  will  be  disappointed — will  be  an- 
noyed, I'm  sure,  at  our  stupidity,  if  we  do  not 
make  the  most  of  our  opportunity." 

Leslie  smiled  a  glorious  smile  upon  him. 

"  Mr.  Beekman,"  she  whispered  softly,  "  do 
you  think  we've  been  so  very  stupid?" 


If  only  he  had  dared,  ...  he  would  have  drawn 
the  dainty  head  of  Leslie  Wilkinson  down  on  his 
shoulder  and  would  have  kissed  her  then  and  there 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          77 

She  touched  him  lightly  on  the  arm.  He  tried 
to  seize  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  from  him. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  we've  got  any 
right  to  leave  this  fascinating  retreat,  and  go 
down  and  face  the  crowd  without  being — well, 
without  being  engaged.  That  is,  according  to  my 
idea  of  the  Pallet-Searings'  idea,  we'd  be  consid- 
ered a  dull  young  couple,  to  say  the  least." 

"  But  I'd  be  cutting  myself  out  of  many  a  de- 
lightful hour  here!"  Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  he  persisted. 

She  tilted  her  head  critically. 

"And  this  is  all  I'm  to  get  for  sitting  out  the 
best  part  of  an  evening  with  a  girl,  when  I  might 
have  been  down  there  with  the  madding  crowd, 
having  the  time  of  my  life,"  he  added. 

Leslie  moved  to  go. 

"We've  made  several  false  starts  from  here," 
she  reminded  him,  "  but  we  must  go  now  without 
any  further  hesitation,  and  by  separate  routes. 
Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  'hand. 
"  Shall  I  see  you  at  the  landing-place  at  eight 
o'clock  sharp  in  the  morning?" 

Beekman  drew  her  back. 

"At  what  landing-place?"  he  demanded,  un- 
certain of  her  meaning.  "What's  going  on?" 

The  girl  fell  back  helplessly  before  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  sighed  for- 
lornly, "that  I  have  been  here  all  this  time  with 


78          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

you  without  telling  you  the  very  thing  I  brought 
you  here  to  tell?" 

"  I  only  know,"  he  returned,  likewise  for- 
lornly, "  that  you  won't  let  me  tell  you  the  thing 
that  for  hours  I've  been  trying  to  tell." 

Leslie  laughed  gaily. 

"  It  was  very  delightful  listening,  anyway," 
she  admitted  frankly.  "  But  about  this  other 
thing — I  told  everybody  here,  that  is,  everybody 
that's  to  go,  but  you — and  you,  why  I  wanted  you 
the  most  of  all." 

Beekman  caught  her  hand  and  held  it,  despite 
her  dignified  little  struggle. 

"You're  sure  of  that?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  she  replied,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "  You  need  a  little  tan — the  sail  would  do 
you  good.  Why,  twenty  of  us  boys  and  girls, — 
besides  some  half-dozen  chaperones — are  going 
for  the  week-end  on  the  Marchioness.  Away  out 
to  sea  as  far  as  she  can  stand  it,  and  back  again.  It 
ought  to  be  good  fun !  There'll  be  only  congenial 
people  aboard — the  right  men  for  the  right 
girls." 

"  But  for  yourself,  Miss  Wilkinson,  who " 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  she  broke  in  upon 
his  question,  "  inasmuch  as  I  am  hostess,  I  see  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  have  the  whole  ten  men 
most  of  the  time,  do  you?  I'm  a  pretty  fair 
manager  about  these  things,  you  know,"  she  went 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  79 

on  interestedly,  "  and  I  thought  for  you  that  Jane 
Gerard.  ..." 

Beekman  coughed  slightly  and  glanced  at  his 
watch. 

"A  most  delightful  trip,"  he  conceded,  "and 
I  should  be  glad,  awfully  glad  to  be  able  to  take 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  if  it  were  not  that 
I  am  so  very  busy,  and " 

Leslie  was  quick  to  detect  his  annoyance,  but 
went  on,  still  flirtatiously: 

"  Of  course,  I  could  pair  off  Jane  Gerard  with 
Larry  Pendexter,  though  I  was  thinking  of  keep- 
ing him  myself.  ..."  She  pursed  her  lips,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  half-closed. 
Presently,  she  said :  "  I  think  maybe  it  could  be 
arranged."  And  laughing,  now,  added:  "You'll 
surely  come,  won't  you?" 

"Come!"  he  exclaimed,  beaming  with  joy. 
"  I'd  come  in  the  face  of  a  million  dollar  retainer 
from  John  D.  Rockefeller — I  would,  indeed !  " 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  she  faced  her  hos- 
tess to  bid  her  good-night,  that  estimable  lady, 
not  altogether  satisfied  with  Leslie's  nonchalant 
manner,  laid  her  hand  on  her  young  guest's 
shoulder,  and  drew  her  to  one  side. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear,"  she  said  insinuatingly,  "that 
it's  not  going  to  be  Eliot  Beekman.  He's  all 
right,  little x  one — handsome,  and  clean,  to'o. 
But  what  you  need  is  money — don't  forger 


80          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

that  —  particularly  now.  Take  my  advice  — 
Eliot  is  dangerous."  The  lady  sighed.  '"  I've 
known  such  men — I  knew  one  of  them  once."  Her 
eyes  sought  the  portly  form  of  Pallet-Searing 
across  the  big  room.  "And  I  married  Pallet- 
Searing.  It's  been  worth  while."  But  there  was 
a  sigh  in  her  voice,  the  girl  thought,  as  she  re- 
peated again,  "worth  while.  Run  along  now! 
Mrs.  Wilkinson  has  been  looking  everywhere  for 
you.  Even  Peter  V.  looked  in  to  take  you  home. 
They've  both  gone.  But  here  comes  Eliot  now." 
And  turning  to  Beekman,  the  lady  shook  her 
finger  at  him.  "  I've  been  warning  Leslie  against 
you,  Eliot,"  she  said,  frankly,  telling  him  to  his 
face  what  she  had  said  behind  his  back.  "  I've 
been  warning  her  that  she  must  look  for  money. 
And,  oh,  by  the  way,  Eliot!  Somebody's  been 
here  after  you  to-night.  We  searched  everywhere 
for  you  except  in  one  place,  and  nobody  is  ever 
allowed  to  look  there.  Colonel  Morehead  is  the 


man." 


Beekman  started. 

"  You  don't  by  any  chance  happen  to  know- 


"  Business,"  interposed  Mrs.  Pallet-Searing; 
"  at  least,  he  said  it  was." 

Beekman  gave  vent  to  a  slight  gesture  of  an- 
noyance. 

"  I  wish  I  might  have  seen  him.  But  he's  gone, 
I  suppose?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          81 

Mrs.  Pallet-Searing  laughed  outright. 

"You  surely  don't  regret  the  fact  that  we 
couldn't  find  you,  Eliot?" 

Beekman  laughed  sheepishly,  and  shot  a  glance 
of  guilt  toward  Leslie. 

"That  isn't  the  point.  It  simply  gives  me  an 
involuntary  pang  when  somebody  looks  me  up  on 
business  and  I  miss  them.  I  have  a  feeling  that, 
somehow,  I  may  have  lost  an  opportunity;  and 
chaps  like  me  can't  well  afford  to  miss  a  man  like 
Colonel  Morehead." 

".  .  .  How  are  you  going  to  get  home, 
child?"  suddenly  asked  her  hostess  of  Leslie. 
"  Your  machine  is  out  there,  but " 

Leslie  hesitated  for  an  instant. 

"  Possibly  Mr.  Beekman  ..."  she  laughed 
mischievously. 

Beekman  looked  up  with  mock  gravity. 

"Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  said,  "you've  heard  that 
old  saying  about  the  game  and  the  name?  Come !  " 
And  he  took  her  by  the  arm. 

Mrs.  Pallet-Searing  watched  the  happy  young 
couple  leave  her  house,  and  her  face  took  on  an 
expression  little  in  accord  with  the  worldly  and 
cynical  advice  that  she  had  given  the  girl  a  few 
moments  before. 

From  her  corner  of  the  limousine  Leslie  con- 
fided to  Beekman: 

"  Do  you  know  that  every  time  I  do  something, 


82          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

have  something,  or  give  something,  now  that  we 
live  on  Bankrupt  Row,  up  there  on  the  Drive, 
I  have  to  explain  to  everybody  that  it's  my 
money,  and  not  my  father's,  as  most  people  imag- 
ine." 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you  or  your 
father,  but  I'm  only  an  atom  of  an  aggregation 
Jiere  in  New  York,  confound  it!" 

Leslie  looked  at  him  gratefully,  but  went  on: 

"  My  money  must  support  the  family.  Father 
lost  everything  he  had." 

"  I — I  didn't  know  that  you  had  any  money." 
He  laughed  uncomfortably.  "  I'm  one  of  these 
chaps  who  has  to  blurt  things  out,  Miss  Wilkin- 
son, and  so  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  thought.  Of 
course  I  didn't  really  want  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  to 
fail — I  was  sorry  when  I  heard  about  it.  But 
when  I  knew  it  had  to  happen,  that  it  was  in- 
evitable— Oh,  confound  it,  I  was  glad,  and  for 
my  own  selfish  reason." 

"Very  kind  of  you  to  gloat  over  our  misfor- 
tune," was  her  brief  comment,  uttered  by  no 
means  seriously. 

"  I  thought,"  went  on  Beekman,  grimly,  "  that 
it  would  put  us  more  on  an  equal  footing,  that 
perhaps  I  would  have  the  right  to " 

"Oh,  the  right,  did  you  say?  I  never  thought 
you  worried  much  over  that,"  she  said  with  truly 
feminine  perversity. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          83 

There  was  a  pause.  Beekman  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"A  terribly  complicated  matter,  this  making 
love  to  a  rich  girl.  In  the  first  place " 

"Is  this  an  argument  before  a  court?"  she  in- 
quired, playfully. 

"  Before  the  last  court  of  appeals,"  he  answered 
quickly.  "And  the  gist  of  it  is  this:  How  the 
deuce  can  a  rich  girl  ever  know  that  anybody  ever 
loves  her?  " 

"Do  you  suppose  she  cannot  tell?" 

"  You  can't.  Look  at  the  rich  women  who  have 
been  fooled — either  fooled,  or  else  satisfied  to  be 
sought  for  what  they've  got  and  not  for  what 
they  are !  You  know  them  by  the  score." 

"  I  think  I  should  know  if  anyone  loved  me." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  make  the  perfect 
test,"  he  told  her,  "  and  that's  impossible.  To  rid 
yourself  of  every  dollar  for  all  time,  and  then  see 
what  happens." 

The  girl  made  no  answer. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  of  all  the  women  in  the 
world,  the  rich  American  girl,  in  my  opinion, 
stands  the  least  chance  to  be  mated  as  she  should 
be.  If  she  marries  money,  ten  chances  to  one  it's 
money  she  marries  and  not  a  man;  if  she  marries 
a  beggar,  she  gets  an  adventurer.  The  reason 
for  this,  is:  the  honest  American  men  will  not 


84          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  girl  of  wealth;  and  those 
are  the  very  men  that  the  rich  girl  ought  to  marry. 
Unfortunately,  however,  they  are  just  as  inde- 
pendent in  their  way  as  she  is  in  hers.  You  ought 
to  come  down  and  be  poor,"  he  concluded,  help- 
ing her  to  alight,  for  the  limousine  was  now  in 
front  of  the  Wilkinson  house. 

They  crossed  the  pavement  to  the  doorway. 
There  she  asked: 

"  Do  you  know  any  honest,  poor  man,  who 

will "  She  broke  off  abruptly,  recognising  her 

audacity,  and  then  added:  "Don't  forget,  at 
eight  to-morrow  morning.  Those  not  on  time 
will  get  left — for  at  two  minutes  past  eight  the 
Marchioness  will  be  out  in  the  middle  of  the  Hud- 
son. Until  then," — and  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
— "  at  the  landing " 

"  Not  at  the  landing,"  he  broke  in.  "  I'm  going 
to  start  from  here.  I'll  call  for  you  just  to  see 
that  Larry  Pendexter  keeps  himself  to  himself,  or 
at  least  to  Jane  Gerard.  Is  it  a  go?" 

Leslie  did  not  answer.  Instead  she  flashed  him 
a  bewildering  smile  as  she  passed  through  the 
door  which  Jeffries  held  open  for  her. 

Half  way  down  the  hall,  Leslie  ran  into  Roy 
Pallister.  His  face  was  haggard  and  unduly 
white.  She  started  back  as  she  saw  him. 

"  Why,  Roy !  "  she  cried,  unconsciously  calling 
him  by  his  first  name;  "what  has  happened?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          85 

The  boy  flushed  as  his  name  fell  from  her  lips. 

"  Miss  Leslie,"  he  began  stumblingly,  seem- 
ingly embarrassed  by  the  searching  gaze  she 
rested  on  him,  "nothing — that  is,  nothing  that's 
imminent.  Your " 

"My  father!"  she  queried.  "Has  any- 
thing  " 

"  They,"  pointing  to  the  floor  above,  "  seem 
to  treat  it  lightly.  I'm  a  beast  for  frightening 
you;  but  I  think  your  father  feels — fears " 

"  Mr.  Pallister,  what  are  you  keeping  from 
me?  What  is  the  matter?" 

The  gentle  little  fellow  steadied  himself  for  a 
moment  against  the  wall,  and  then,  as  she  made 
a  movement  to  gO,  he  drew  her  back. 

"  Miss  Leslie,  I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you 
something — I've  been  waiting  for  the  chance.  If 
ever  in  the  future  you  need  help — help  of  any 
kind,  you'll  let  me  know,"  he  said  with  lips  that 
trembled.  "  I  want  to  be  sure  that  you  under- 
stand just  what  I  mean.  I've  never  done  any- 
thing'for  you,  Miss  Leslie,  and " 

"  Why,  yes  you  have ;  indeed  you  have  ..." 
she  assured  him,  and  her  look  was  one  of  genuine 
affection. 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  I  want  your  promise  that  you'll  come  to  me 
if " 

Leslie   did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more,   but 


86          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

breaking  from  him,  ran  swiftly  up  the  stairs.  At 
the  first  landing  she  turned  and  looked  back:  he 
was  standing  very  straight  and  very  quiet  by  the 
newel  post,  glancing  up  at  her  with  intense  ad- 
miration. In  a  flash  she  was  back  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  holding  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  I  promise,  Roy,"  she  said  impulsively. 
"  You're  the  best-hearted  fellow  going !  Good- 
night!" 

At  the  door  of  her  step-mother's  apartment, 
Leslie  paused.  A  babel  of  voices  came  from  be- 
hind the  closed  doors — the  voices  of  many  men 
and  one  woman.  Quickly  in  answer  to  her  knock 
and  question  "May  I  come  in?"  the  door  was 
thrown  back,  and  Flomerfelt,  her  father's  confi- 
dential man,  stood  framed  in  the  doorway,  bow- 
ing elaborately.  In  a  glance,  despite  the  haze  of 
cigar  smoke,  she  saw  that  the  company  consisted 
of  her  father,  her  father's  wife,  and  another  man. 
With  a  glad  cry,  she  rushed  over  to  this  other 
man  and  grasped  his  hand. 

"  Colonel  Morehead !  The  sight  of  you.   .    .    . " 

In  an  instant,  Colonel  Morehead's  thin  lips 
parted  in  a  smile.  He  made  an  old-fashioned 
bow  and  then  sank  back  into  his  chair. 

"You  were  at  Amy  Pallet-Searing's  to-night," 
the'  girl  went  on,  "  and  you  never  looked  me  up. 
Be  good  enough  to  explain  yourself,  sir ! " 

Colonel  Morehead  removed  his  glasses  and  pol- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  87 

ished  them  upon  his  handkerchief  before  answer- 
ing: 

"  I  was  busy  looking  up  somebody  else,"  he 
said,  and  Leslie  saw  that  the  smile  had  left  his 
face  as  he  resumed  his  tap-tapping  on  the  table 
with  his  fingers;  she  saw,  too,  that  her  father's 
face  was  a  bit  white  where  the  skin  showed.  He 
looked  tired,  but  his  thick  Van  Dyke  bristled  ag- 
gressively, and  his  eyebrows  breathed  the  usual 
defiance. 

"  Where  were  you,  Leslie,  that  we  couldn't  find 
you  anywhere?"  demanded  her  step-mother,  ir- 
ritably. "  How  did  you  get  home?" 

"  Very  comfortably  in  the  limousine,  thank 
you,"  replied  Leslie.  "  Mr.  Beekman  was  good 
enough " 

Colonel  Morehead  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  Not  Eliot  Beekman  I  What?  He  came  home 
with  you?"  He  started  for  the  door.  "Why, 
he's  the  man  I've  been  looking  for.  Where  is  he 
now?" 

"Undoubtedly  home,  by  this  time,"  said  Les- 
lie. 

The  Colonel  again  reseated  himself  and 
drummed  loudly  with  his  fingers. 

"Hang  it!"  he  ejaculated.  "If  I'd  only 
known.  .  .  .  He  could  have  been  with  us  here 
now.  We  need  him — and  badly." 

Wilkinson  looked  puzzled. 


88          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Why  do  we  need  him?"  Wilkinson  asked 
the  question  in  a  voice  in  which  excitement  still 
held  sway. 

"  That's  what  I  should  like  to  know ! "  put  in 
Mrs.  Wilkinson,  gulping  down,  not  without  au- 
dible satisfaction,  her  customary  night-cap. 

Leslie  blushed  as  she  added  that  the  question 
likewise  was  of  interest  to  her. 

"We're  disgraced,  that's  all  there  is  to  it!" 
snapped  the  mistress  of  the  house,  her  night-cap, 
even  at  this  early  stage,  lending  her  asperity. 
"And  I  the  most  of  all!  I  don't  see  how  this 
Beekman  can  help  us  out?" 

"  I  don't  myself,"  admitted  her  husband. 
"However,  nothing  can  happen  so  long  as  Colo- 
nel Morehead  sticks  to  us — nothing." 

'"  I  have  no  intention  of  deserting  you,  don't  be 
alarmed,"  declared  Colonel  Morehead.  "  But  for 
all  that,  I  want  this  man  Beekman — I  need  him." 
And  so  saying  he  lifted  from  the  small  table  a 
document  consisting  of  several  sheets  of  carbon- 
copy. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  said  gravely,  handing  it 
to  her.  "No — there's  nothing  in  it  to  startle 
you,  only  you  should  know,  I  think,  we  all  ought 
to  understand.  ...  If  you'll  read  this,  you'll 
know  what  happened  to  your  father  this  after- 
noon." 

Puzzled  at  first,  the  girl  slowly  read  the  flimsy 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          89 

document  as  she  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"  Oh !  "  she  wailed,  as  its  meaning  dawned  upon 
her.  "They  had  no  right  to  do  this — no  right 
whatever ! " 

"You're  sure  you  understand  it?"  interroga- 
ted the  Colonel. 

The  girl  bowed  her  head  gravely.  Then,  going 
over  to  her  father, — wholly  unconscious  of  a 
curious  look  on  Flomerfelt's  face, — she  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Father,  dear  father,"  she  whispered  to  him, 
"  don't  mind.  We'll  win  out." 

Her  father  submitted  goodnaturedly  but  wear- 
ily to  her  embrace.  He  stretched  his  arms  and 
yawned. 

"  I'm  dog  tired,"  he  said,  rising.  "  I'm  going 
to  bed.  You'll  stay  all  night,  Morehead?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  responded  the  Colonel. 
"  You  don't  catch  me  deserting  my  own  hard  bed 
— not  much!  I'll  go  home."  He  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  and  pressed  a  but- 
ton. 

"How  about  you,  Flomerfelt?  It's  rather 
late  .  .  ."  said  Peter  V. 

"  Don't  care  if  I  do,"  was  the  latter's  answer. 
And  on  the  servant's  appearing,  Peter  V.  ordered 
him  to  show  Mr.  Flomerfelt  to  one  of  the  guest 
rooms,  concluding  with :  "  Show  him  to  the  one 


90          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

with  the  painted  nymphs  skylarking  on  the  walls." 
Then  he  placed  his  arm  around  his  daughter,  and 
together  they  followed  Colonel  Morehead  down- 
stairs to  the  door,  where  they  bade  him  good- 
night. 

Mrs.  Wilkinson  and  Flomerfelt  listened  to  the 
sound  of  retreating  footsteps. 

"  He'll  not  be  coming  back,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  want  to  talk  to  you."  And  pointing  to  the  doc- 
ument that  Leslie  had  been  shown,  she  asked: 
"What  does  all  this  signify?" 

"What  it  signifies,"  he  answered,  picking  up 
the  paper,  "may  depend  on  you." 

The  woman  looked  puzzled. 

"How?" 

Flomerfelt's  eyes  narrowed.  Then,  with  a 
lithe  and  dexterous  movement  of  his  long  arms, 
he  shot  his  cuffs — hitherto  out  of  sight — into  view; 
extending  them,  with  a  jerk,  below  his  coat- 
sleeves,  so  that  they  covered  his  lean  wrists  to  the 
extent  of  three-quarters  of  an  inch,  a  distance 
which  he  measured  with  mathematical  certainty, 
apparently,  for  his  nice  adjustment  of  them  was 
followed  critically  by  his  glance.  He  eyed  and 
adjusted  one  cuff  until  it  satisfied  him,  and  then 
eyed  and  adjusted  the  other;  finally  he  rubbed  his 
hands  together,  and  said : 

"  One  of  the  richest  women  in  the  world — rich 
in  her  own  right.  How  does  that  sound  to  you? " 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          91 

Mrs.  Peter  V.  stared  at  him. 

"Who  is?"  she  inquired. 

"  It's  a  possibility  that  affects  a  woman  in  this 
house." 

"Leslie?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you." 

"I?  I'm  not  rich.  I've  been  a  fool!"  she 
cried.  "  I  should  have  made  him  settle  some- 
thing on  me — half,  at  any  rate.  Now  it's  all 
gone;  he's  lost  everything;  I  might  as  well  have 
had  half  of  it — as  well  that,  as  to  throw  it  in  the 
gutter  as  he  did." 

Wilkinson's  confidential  man  seated  himself. 

"  Unquestionably  you  need  me,"  he  said  franklyv 
and  then  stopped.  Hitherto  he  had  kept  his  own 
counsel.  And  yet,  he  reflected,  there  is  a  wisdom 
of  disclosure  just  as  there  is  a  wisdom  of  suppres- 
sion. Some  new  impulse  seized  him;  his  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper.  "There  is  a  chance  for  us> 
Mrs.  Peter  V.,  to  be  rich,  if  we  work  together, 
unusually  rich." 

"But  how?"  she  whispered  back,  excitedly. 

Flomerfelt  smiled  inscrutably,  and  answered: 

"  Out  of  the  wreck,  there's  a  chance " 

"A  good  chance?"  she  interrupted  eagerly. 

"There's  only  one  man  who  can  prevent  it," 
he  went  on. 

"Peter  V. ?" 


92          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

A  nod  was  her  answer. 

Immediately  then  she  went  back  to  first 
principles. 

"What  is  going  to  happen  to  him?  Will  they 
put  him  in  jail?  " 

Wilkinson's  confidential  man  smiled. 

"  I've  often  wondered,"  he  mused,  "  whether 
it  would  be  good  or  bad  for  us  if  they  jailed  him. 
A  man  in  prison  is  a  man  very  much  out  of  the 
way.  But  in  this  case  he  would  be  too  much  out 
of  the  way.  Put  him- in  jail  and  you  discourage 
his  defence — you  encourage  the  public,  his  deposi- 
tors. They'll  do  what  we  should  do:  infest  the 
wreck  and  gobble  up  what  is  ours  by  right.  No, 
so  long  as  Peter  Wilkinson  lives,  we  must  fight 
his  battle  for  him — pull  him  through,  keep  him 
standing  up,  only  to  be  able  to1  knock  him  down 
later.  That,  so  long  as  he  lives,  must  be  our 
policy.  So  long  as  he  lives,"  he  repeated. 

"  Suppose,"  she  began,  and  then  hazarded : 
"  In  case  of  his  death,  what  would  my  rights  be?  " 

"  In  case  he  dies "  suddenly  he  stopped. 

That  was  a  possibility  he  had  not  foreseen.  He 
had  seen  much  strife  ahead:  first,  a  tremendous 
fight  for  Wilkinson,  then  a  tremendous  campaign 
against  him.  But  what  if  the  man  should  break 
down,  die?  There  was  food  for  thought,  rea- 
soned Flomerfelt. 

"  He    might   die,"    he    resumed,    holding   her 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          93 

glance  as  he  went  on,  "  for  everything  must  be 
considered.  Disgrace  wouldn't  kill  him,  but  his 

liver,  or, "  he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his 

shoulder, — "there  might  be  violence^-conspira- 
cies.  There  have  been  rumours  that  the  trust 
company  depositors  are  wild,  especially  the  poor 
ones — socialists,  we'll  say.  So,  he  might  die — be 
killed.  Who  knows?" 

Flomerfelt  rose  and  looked  down  upon  her  long 
and  earnestly. 

"  But  we'll  cross  that  bridge  when  we  come  to 
it,  Mrs.  Peter  V.  Good-night,  my  dear  lady ! " 
And  bowing  unusually  low  to  her,  he  left  the 
room. 


VI 

IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Eliot 
Beekman  reached  his  club  in  Forty-fourth  Street. 

"There's  a  telegram  for  you,  Mr.  Beekman," 
called  out  a  sleepy  employe,  'from  the  office.  "  It 
was  left  here  by  your  clerk  to-night." 

In  his  room  Beekman  switched  on  the  light  and 
read: 

ELIOT  BEEKMAN,  ESQ., 

32  Nassau  St.,  N.  Y. 

Meet  us  at  Hotel  Iroquois,  Buffalo,  to-morrow  six  p.  M.     Im- 
portant letter  follows.     Wire  answer.     Do  not  fail. 

BANK  LE  BOEUF, 
J.  K.  W.,  Cashier. 

"The  Bank  Le  Boeuf  of  Buffalo!  Sounds 
good;  I  hope  it  is  good,"  mused  Beekman.  "If 
so,  another  big  client  added  to  my  growing  list." 

Without  hesitation  he  wrote  an  answering  tele- 
gram, stating  that  he  would  be  at  the  Hotel 
Iroquois  at  6  P.  M.  the  following  night,  took  it 
downstairs,  and  left  it  in  the  office  with  instruc- 
tions to  send  it  as  soon  as  possible. 

And  it  was  not  until  fifteen  minutes  later,  in 
the  midst  of  his  speculations  as  to  the  nature  of 
this  business  sent  to  him  by  the  Bank  Le  Boeuf, 

94 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          95 

that  the  thought  of  Leslie's  yachting-party  came 
to  him. 

"Confound  it!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I 
clean  forgot  all  about  it.  What  am  I  going  to 
do?" 

Yet  Beekman  was  so  consistent  that  he  recog- 
nised at  once  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  save 
what  he  had  done.  He  had  built  up  his  practice 
without  pull,  influence  or  money;  and  he  had  done 
it  by  religiously  conserving  the  interests  of  his 
clients.  He  knew,  therefore,  that  he  must  obey 
this  summons.  So,  assuring  himself  that  Leslie 
would  understand  it  when  he  told  her  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  removed  his  evening  dress,  swathed  him- 
self in  a  dressing-gown,  stepped  into  his  library 
and  began  to  work.  An  unfinished  job  lay  upon 
his  table — a  job  that,  he  knew,  would  take  past 
dawn  to  finish,  and  early  in  the  evening  he  had 
determined  not  to  go  to  bed.  So  he  started  in. 

There  was  a  neat  supply  of  law  books  in  his 
rooms — a  good  working  library,  an  average  law- 
yer would  call  it.  And  from  the  hour  that  he 
donned  his  dressing-gown, ;  Beekman  nosed  among 
these  tan-coloured  volumes,  taking  down  one  from 
its  shelf,  scanning  the  headnotes  of  a  given  case, 
reading  the  opinion,  slapping  the  book  together 
and  replacing  it.  A  hundred  times,  at  least,  he 
did  this.  Finally,  weary  of  his  search,  and  hope- 
lessly downcast,  for  so  far  his  search  had  been  in 


96          THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

vain,  he  found  on  the  highest  shelf  a  slender  vol- 
ume and  opened  it.  And  now,  as  he  started  to 
read,  his  eye  brightened  and  he  quickly  seized 
pen  and  paper. 

"  Eureka !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  On  all  fours — • 
just  in  point.  By  George,  this — this  wins  the 
trick!" 

Half  an  hour  was  spent  in  jotting  down  the 
salient  portions  of  the  opinion  of  the  Court  of 
Appeals.  Then,  restoring  the  book  to  its  accus- 
tomed place,  he  folded  up  his  memorandum  neatly 
and  thrust  it  into  a  heavy  brown  envelope,  la- 
belled :  Turner  vs.  Cooper.  And  now  with  consider- 
able complacency  he  leaned  back,  saying  to  him- 
self: 

"  I  thought  sure  I  was  licked.  But  I've  got 
'em!  I'll  bet  dollars  to  doughnuts  that  Jameson 
&  Bowers  never  even  heard  of  that  decision! 
Now,"  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  "  I'm  ready  for 
Leslie  Wilkinson  and  the  Marchioness — or,  no," 
he  corrected  himself,  "  I  mean  I'm  ready  for  the 
Empire  State  Express." 

A  moment  more  and  he  had  turned  on  the 
faucet,  filled  the  tub  to  the  brim,  and  had  plunged 
in — holding  his  head  under  the  cold  water  for 
half  a  minute  at  a  time.  Completely  refreshed,, 
he  dressed  carefully,  ascertained  from  the  appear- 
ance of  the  heavens  that  it  was  likely  to  be  clear, 
then  quietly  left  his  room  and  started  down  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT          97 

stairs  and  left  the  club.  At  the  Grand  Central 
Station  he  checked  his  grip.  He  had  lots  of  time, 
even  for  the  preliminary  little  journey  that  he 
proposed  to  take. 

After  getting  some  breakfast  he  strolled  back 
to  the  West  Side  and  sauntered  up  Sixth  Avenue. 
The  stores  were  all  closed.  One,  however,  as 
Beekman  passed,  opened  up.  From  the  door  its 
proprietor,  a  little  wizened  Jew,  nodded  sleepily 
to  Beekman.  Returning  the  nod,  the  latter  looked 
again  at  the  store,  and  retracing  his  steps,  en- 
tered. 

"  Ready  for  business?  "  inquired  the  lawyer. 

The  proprietor  nodded. 

"Alvays,"  he  replied. 

"This  is  a  gun  store?"  queried  Beekman. 

The  Jew  yawned. 

"Loogs  like  id,"  he  conceded.  "Did  you  vant 
to  buy  a  gun?" 

"  I  want  ten  cents'  worth  of  shot,"  his  cus- 
tomer replied,  pointing  out  the  size  he  wanted; 
and,  after  the  storekeeper  had  weighed  out  the 
quantity  and  it  had  been  dropped  into  his  pockets, 
he  started  on  his  way  rejoicing,  making  a  bee  line 
for  Wilkinson's.  It  was  getting-up  time  now,  but 
not  for  people  on  the  Drive.  There  silence, 
reigned  supreme. 

But  Beekman  felt  very  wide  awake.  His  con- 
versation with  Leslie  the  night  before  in  the 


98  THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Pallet-Searing  cosy-corner,  and  his  successful 
night's  work  had  gone  to  his  head  like  wine.  And 
it  was  this  condition  that  led  him  to  purchase  a 
tiandful  of  shot;  and  now,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  operating  on  the  residence  that  had 
cost  ten  million  dollars,  more  or  less,  and,  in  fact, 
regardless  of  consequences,  he  took  his  station  in 
the  middle  of  the  Drive  and  selecting  half  a  dozen 
missiles  from  his  pocket,  he  flung  them  lightly 
through  the  air,  aiming  for  a  wide  window-pane 
on  the  third  story  of  the  house.  Three  times  he 
did  this.  The  fourth  time  he  was  stopped  by  a 
voice  calling  out: 

"Hi,  there!" 

Turning  quickly  Beekman  found  himself  con- 
fronted with  the  majesty  of  the  law. 

"What're  you  trying  to  do?"  demanded  the 
-officer.  "  Isn't  it  a  bit  early  in  the  morning,  or  a 
bit  late  in  the  evening,  to  be  out  on  a  drunk? 
What's  doin',  anyway?" 

Beekman  grinned,  desisting,  nevertheless. 

"A  bit  of  old-time  romance,"  he  explained; 
*'  trying  to  wake  her  up,  that's  all." 

"Is  her  name  Norah?"  demanded  the  blue- 
coat,  threateningly. 

Beekman  glanced  aloft;  then  he  plucked  the 
officer  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Look  for  yourself,"  he  rejoined,  "  and  see. 
M,  •.,  :.  Is  that  Norah  up  there?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT  99 

While  the  officer  scanned  the  housetop,  Beek- 
man  gazed  innocently  out  over  the  Hudson. 

"  It  is — not,"  he  assented  joyfully.  "  And  so 
long  as  it  is  not,  I  have  nought  to  say,  except," 
the  policeman's  voice  trailed  off  into  a  whisper, 
"  except,  sir,  that  the  lady  is  waving  to  you.  Look 
now,  and  see." 

Beekman  looked.     There  she  was,  indeed. 

"I've  been  up  an  hourl"  she  cried.  "Wait 
until  I  come  down." 

In  the  music-room,  she  greeted  him  with: 

"Have  you  had  your  breakfast?" 

"Yes.     I  came  to  tell  you.  ,.    .    ." 

"Then  you  got  my  telegram  all  right?" 

Beekman  shook  his  head. 

"  You're  not  the  Bank  Le  Boeuf  of  Buffalo?" 

"  I  didn't  phone  you,"  she  went  on,  ignoring 
his  question,  "  because  I  couldn't,  don't  you  know. 
But  I  sent  a  wire  so  you'd  get  it  the  first  thing 
this  morning — at  your  club." 

"  Crowd  there  too  sleepy  to  get  it  to  me,  I 
suppose,"  he  said,  puzzled.  "What  was  in  it?" 
But  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  went  on: 
"  I  came  to  tell  you  about  my  telegram,"  and  with 
that  he  passed  it  over  to  her.  "  Business  before 
pleasure,"  he  remarked  tritely,  and  yet  in  a  man- 
ner that  he  knew  she  would  understand.  "  I 
can't  go  on  the  Marchioness,  you  see." 

"The  Marchioness/'   she   responded,    "is   not 


ioo        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

going  after  all.  That's  why  I  wired  you.  But 
I'm  glad  you  came,  because,  somehow,  I  wanted 
you  to  know — before  it  appeared  in  the  pa- 
pers  "  She  paused,  and  then  added,  with  much 

feeling:  "The  Grand  Jury  has  indicted  my  father 
— late  yesterday  afternoon.  As  yet  no  one  knows 
it ;  but  everybody  will  know  it  by  nine  o'clock  this 
morning.  It  may  be  in  the  papers  now,  though 
they  tried  to  keep  it  out.  It's  a  terrible  thing — 
a  thing  like  that !  I  can't  see  how,  or  why,  they 
indicted  him!  Can  you?" 

Beekman  looked  his  sympathy.  Presently  he 
asked : 

"  Do  you  mind  my  asking  just  what  they  charge 
him  with?" 


VII 

THE  Empire  State  Express  had  not  travelled 
many  miles  when  Eliot  Beekman's  attention  was 
directed  to  a  strange-looking  man  who  sat  across 
the  aisle,  facing  him.  From  time  to  time  the 
man's  face  flushed  and  gave  little  nervous  starts 
and  twitches,  and,  every  now  and  then,  he  mum- 
bled to  himself.  At  first  Beekman  figured  out 
that  the  man  was  recovering  from  an  unaccus- 
tomed debauch;  but  afterwards  he  changed  his 
mind:  he  decided  that  he  was  crazy. 

"  Glad  to  get  away  from  New  York,"  confided 
the  stranger,  breaking  in  on  Beekman's  medita- 
tions, and  tapping  him  on  the  knee.  "The  far- 
ther away  I  get  the  better  I  like  it." 

Beekman  somewhat  resented  this  interference 
with  his  comfortable  somnolence,  but  he  straight- 
ened up  and  smiled  and  answered: 

"  For  my  part  New  York's  home  to  me.  I  feel 
sick,  somehow,  when  I'm  away  from  it." 

The  man  swung  about  and  glanced  nervously 
at  the  changing  landscape,  and  then  suddenly 
turned  back  again  and  exhibited  a  pocket  volume 
with  flexible  covers. 

"  Dante's   Inferno,"   he   declared,   pointing  to 

101 


102        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

the  book.  "Ever  delve  into  it?  I've  just  re- 
cently been  through  a  little  inferno  of  my  own," 
he  went  on.  "  I  brought  this  with  me,  because 
I've  got  to  keep  before  my  mind  the  fact  that 
some  people  have  gone  through  more  than  I  have. 
At  least,  so  it  seems  to  me.  At  the  same  time, 
I  don't  know  that  I'm  ready  to  change  places  with 
any  of  the  chaps  in  here."  He  tapped  the  book. 
"Neat  little  volume,"  he  commented,  rattling  on 
nervously  and  without  apparently  keeping  much 
track  of  what  he  was  saying.  "  See  the  frontis- 
piece," he  said,  leaning  over  towards  Beekman. 
"  It's  Dante  himself.  I  wonder  why  he  always 
wears  that  headgear?  Never  see  him  without  it! 
Always  reminds  me  of  a  little  verse  on  how  to 
tell  the  names  of  busts. 

" '  I  recognise  Dante  because  he's  tab-eared.' 
Tab-eared,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "  is  his  pe- 
culiar sort  of  headgear.  All  sculptors  give  it  to 
him."  He  resumed  in  sing-song  fashion : 

" '  I  recognise  Dante,  because  he's  tab-eared, 
And  Virgil  I  know  by  his  wreath, 
Old  Homer  I  tell  by  his  rough,  shaggy  beard, 
And  the  rest — by  the  names  underneath.'1 " 

Beekman  laughed  aloud. 

"Good!  Mighty  good!"  he  cried.  "Espe- 
cially '  and  the  rest  by  the  names  underneath.'  A 
flash  of  genius  that." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         103 

The  man  turned  over  several  pages  in  his  book 
and  began  to  read  steadily,  rumpling  his  hair, 
from  time  to  time,  as  he  did  so.  Once  he  looked 
up,  only  to  find  Beekman  staring  hard  at  the  top 
of  his  head. 

"Looking  at  my  Heidelberg  scar?"  he  asked 
hastily,  pulling  a  lock  of  hair  over  it.  "  It  was 
an  ugly  one,  I  can  tell  you,  and  almost  did  for 
me,  too.  Sometimes,  you  know  I've  thought  it 
dented  me  a  little  in  the  skull."  He  pushed  back 
the  hair,  again  exhibiting  the  long,  deep  cut.  "  It 
throbs  there  once  in  a  while — it's  throbbing 
now." 

His  conversation  became  incoherent,  and  from 
it  Beekman  gathered  only  snatches. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  go  about  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  though  talking  to  himself.  "  It's  the 
taxes  chiefly.  If  I  can  get  rid  of  the  tax  sales, 
that  farm  is  just  the  thing  for  me.  Old  farm," 
he  explained,  looking  up  at  Beekman,  "  somewhere 
in  Erie  County.  Thought  I'd  take  a  look  at  it. 
Been  in  the  family  for  years,  but  neglected  it; 
now  I  want  to  live  on  it,  bury  myself,  get  away 
from  New  York,  from  the  Inferno  back  to  Eden, 
don't  you  know." 

He  laughed  a  quick,  nervous  laugh,  and  jerked 
himself  away  once  more,  his  face  twitching  while 
he  mumbled. 

"A  man  labouring  under  some   strange    and 


104         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

unusual  excitement,"  thought  Beekman,  "  and 
yet.  ..." 

The  stranger  was  on  his  feet  now,  and  going 
down  the  aisle  paused  before  a  chair  that  was  oc- 
cupied by  a  tired  mother  and  her  two-and-a-half- 
year-old  child.  Weary,  mortified,  her  temper 
gone,  the  woman  was  trying  to  appease  the  cry- 
ing babe. 

Taking  up  the  child  in  his  arms,  the  stranger 
sat  it  on  his  knee,  let  it  play  with  his  watch,  rat- 
tled his  keys,  adopted  a  hundred  lively  pranks  for 
the  benefit  of  the  child;  and  the  infant,  soothed 
and  cheered  by  this  new  and  agreeable  person- 
ality, sank  at  last  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

"  Nothing  like  a  child,"  he  said  to  Beekman, 
"to  make  the  future  seem  worth  while.  Talk 
about  Eden — there's  no  Eden,  no  happiness, 
without  them.  I  love  children,  this  one,  all  of 
them." 

Beekman  once  more  lapsed  into  drowsiness, 
his  thoughts,  in  a  confused  way,  resting  on  the 
eccentric  character  beside  him.  When  he  awoke 
the  train  was  pulling  into  Buffalo.  Touching  the 
stranger  by  the  arm,  as  he  was  preparing  to 
alight,  he  quoted:  '"And  the  rest  by  the  names 
underneath.' "  And  added,  as  he  raised  his  hat : 
"  Thanks.  I'll  not  forget  that." 

Nor  did  he  soon  forget  it.  For  indeed  through 
many  months  to  come  he  carried  with  him  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         105 

memory  of  that  nervous,  haunted,  tired  face  with 
the  restless,  hopeless  eyes,  the  memory  of  this  un- 
known man  with  the  scar  deep  and  long  and  wide 
upon  his  forehead — the  scar  from  Heidelberg. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  morning  Peter  V.  Wilkin- 
son was  closeted  with  Colonel  Morehead  in  Col- 
onel Morehead's  office  at  120  Broadway. 

"  Glad  you  left  that  Flomerfelt  proposition 
downstairs,  Peter,"  said  Morehead,  "because,  for 
one  thing,  I  don't  like  him." 

"Well,  I  do,"  retorted  Wilkinson  positively. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  like  him  because  I  can't 
get  along  without  him.  He's  a  wonder  I "  he 
went  on  enthusiastically.  "Any  time  you  want  a 
thing  put  through,  and  don't  care  how  it's  done, 
you  hire  my  man  Flomerfelt.  In  this  whole 
crisis,  Flomerfelt,  in  my  opinion,  is  worth  his 
weight  in  gold.  Why,  the  man  has  a  hold  on 
nearly  everybody  that  I  know." 

"Well,  he  hasn't  one  on  me,"  returned  the 
lawyer. 

"  He  has  on  me,  then,"  said  his  client,  "  but  I 
don't  mind.  He  gets  good  pay  from  me;  and  he 
can  make  any  given  man  do  almost  anything  he 
wants  him  to  do — that's  Flomerfelt.  I  never  stop 
thanking  my  good  fortune  that  I've  got  him  on 
my  side.  He's  the  kingpin  in  this  mix-up,  let  me 
tell  you,  Morehead." 


io6         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

The  Colonel  laughed. 

"I  was  inclined  to  think,  Peter,  that  I  might 
be  some  pumpkins  myself,"  he  suggested.  "  I 
may  be,  before  we're  through." 

"No  use  of  talking,"  protested  his  client, 
'"  Flomerf elt  can  do  things  that  you  can't  do,  and 
never  thought  of  doing.  If  I  get  out  of  this 
scrape,  it  will  be  Flomerfelt's  doing.  .  .  ." 

The  lawyer  leaned  back  in  his  revolving  chair. 
He  was  a  lean  personage,  all  bone  and  gristle, 
with  a  lean  nose  and  shrewd,  sharp  eyes. 

"  Peter,"  he  said,  "  a  bunch  of  indictments  for 
perjury,  larceny  and  forgery  are  dangerous 
things."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Confound 
it !  "  he  went  on.  "  Why  the  dickens  couldn't  the 
Court  agree  to  take  our  plea  at  ten  this  morning. 
By  eleven  everybody  in  town  will  know  about  it, 
everybody  that  can  will  be  there.  If  the  papers 
hadn't  got  on  to  it  early  this  morning  we'd  have 
had  no  trouble.  We  could  have  slipped  in  and 
out — done  the  trick,  and  nobody  the  wiser.  But 
now  ...  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "that  re- 
minds me — I  want  that  man  Beekman  over  here. 
I'll  call  him  up." 

Eliot  Beekman's  office  said  he  was  out — said  he 
was  not  in  New  York — that  he'd  left  that  morning 
on  the  Empire  State  Express  for  Buffalo. 

"Well,  where  is  he  in  Buffalo?"  asked  More- 
head. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         107 

They  told  him — at  the  Iroquois  Hotel. 

"Tell  him  that  Colonel  Morehead  called  him 
up,"  said  the  Colonel;  "and  that  I  want  to  see 
him  the  minute  he  returns." 

Wilkinson  nervously  tapped  his  foot  upon  the 
floor. 

"  I  can't  see  what  you  want  of  Beekman?"  he 
said. 

Morehead's  eyes  narrowed. 

"  I  want  him  to  defend  you,  if  these  indictments 
come  to  trial,  as  probably  they  shall." 

"What!  That  young  fellow  who  calls  at  my 
house  to  see  Leslie !  "  returned  Wilkinson.  "  Why, 
we  want  the  highest-priced  counsel  we  can  get.  I 
want  you,  and  Patrick  Durand,  but  not  one  of  the 
submerged  like  Beekman." 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  Beekman  isn't  one  of 
the  submerged,  as  you  say.  He's  got  a  practice 
here  that  yields  him  at  least  seventy-five  hundred 
a  year,  which  means  that  he's  a  wonderful  man, 
because  he's  only  thirty,  or  a  little  under,  with  no 
political  pull.  He  makes  his  living  out  of  the 
law  pure  and  simple,  not  out  of  Wall  Street, 
or  real  estate  deals,  or  the  criminal  classes, 
either." 

"Well,  then,  if  he's  not  a  criminal  lawyer,  we 
certainly  do  not  want  him,"  protested  the  Coir 
onel's  rich  client. 

"  I  like  Beekman,"  proceeded  the  Colonel,  ig- 


io8        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

noring  the  comment,  "because,  in  a  measure,  he 
reminds  me  of  myself,  though  he  has  something 
that  I  never  had.  Like  me,  he's  a  free  lance.  He 
never  hooked  up  in  partnership  with  anybody. 
When  he  tries  a  case  he  does  it  as  I  do — not  with 
his  associate  holding  his  hand  on  one  side  and  a 
couple  of  assistants  holding  his  hand  on  the  other 
— but  alone  with  a  couple  of  scraps  of  paper,  and 
the  rest  of  his  case  in  his  head.  I  like  Beekman 
first-rate."  He  hitched  his  chair  close  to  Wilkin- 
son's. "  But  that  isn't  the  point.  The  gist  of  the 
whole  thing  is  this:  There's  one  thing  that  Beek- 
man can  do  better  than  any  other  lawyer  in  New 
York ;  one  thing  that  he  can  do  that  most  lawyers 
can't  do  at  all.  He  is  able  to  impress  his  jury  with 
his  own  absolute  belief  in  his  client's  cause.  He's 
sincere,  and  the  jury  know  it.  And  that's  three- 
quarters  of  the  battle.  Oh,  we'll  all  be  there, 
Peter,  on  the  show-down,  but  you  can  imagine  me 
trying  to  impress  a  jury  with  my  belief  in  my 
client's  honesty,  can't  you?  Oh,  yes,  my  clever- 
ness is  conceded;  they'd  all  laugh,  and  say,/ Strike 
one  for  the  Colonel,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  ten  chances  to  one  they'd  find  the  other  way. 
I  wish  I  had  that  strange  thing  that  Beekman  has 
got !  All  my  life  I've  wanted  it." 

Wilkinson  fidgeted  about.  He  didn't  see  this 
as  the  Colonel  did.  Nevertheless  he  answered: 

"What  you  say  goes,  Morehead!" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         109 

The  Colonel  jerked  his  head  and  became  the 
least  bit  more  confidential. 

"  But  the  trick  is  to  be  sure  that  Beekman  ac- 
tually does  believe  in  you.  But,  Peter,  we're  for- 
tunate in  one  respect — I  would  have  retained  him 
anyway — but  this  development  is  certainly  fortu- 
itous: He  wants  to  marry  your  daughter  Les- 
lie." 

Wilkinson's  face  reddened;  his  Van  Dyke  bris- 
tled with  opposition. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  him  get  the  chance ! "  he  cried. 
"  Leslie  has  got  to  marry  well,  and  she's  just  the 
hard-headed  little  girl  who'll  do  it,  too.  Beek- 
man marry  Leslie !  Not  if  I  know  it !  " 

The  lawyer  sank  back  wearily. 

"  The  question  of  who  marries  your  daughter. 
Wilkinson,  is  no  concern  of  mine.  That  Beekman 
wants  to  marry  her,  is  enough  for  me.  Let  him 
want  to — let  him  see  her  all  he  wants  to — you 
can  fix  the  ultimate  proceedings  in  your  own  way. 
But  for  the  present,  somebody  has  got  to  build 
up  in  Beekman  a  great  and  immovable  faith  in 
you.  He  must  be  educated  up  to  the  belief  that 
you  are  as  straight  as  a  string.  Let  his  teacher 
be  the  girl;  she'll  make  the  best  one,  for  she  be- 
lieves in  you  herself." 

Wilkinson  pressed  his  hand  against  his  face. 

"And  she's  always  got  to  believe  in  me,"  he 
groaned.  "We  must  see  to  that." 


The  Colonel  gripped  his  arm. 

"And  whatever  happens,  Peter,"  he  concluded, 
"I  don't  want  Beekman  ever  to  meet  this  man 
Giles  Ilingsworth,  for  he's  another  of  your  hon- 
est chaps;  and  if  Beekman  before  your  trial  should 
hear  from  the  lips  of  Giles  Ilingsworth  his  own 
story  of  the  case,  he's  going  to  believe  it.  Do 
you  understand?"  The  lawyer  grinned,  adding: 
"  For  I  believe  it  myself." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  Mastodon  turned  into 
Franklin  Street  from  Broadway  and  rolled  easily 
down  the  hill  toward  the  Criminal  Courts  Build- 
ing, next  door  to  the  Tombs.  In  the  car  were 
four  men:  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  Colonel  More- 
head,  his  counsel;  Roy  Pallister,  Wilkinson's  pri- 
vate secretary,  and  Wilkinson's  chauffeur. 

'"  Great  guns !  "  cried  Wilkinson  when  they  were 
half-way  down  the  street;  "look  at  the  crowds! 
Why,  everybody  in  New  York  is  here ! " 

"  I  heard  on  the  street  this  morning,"  said 
Morehead,  who  rather  enjoyed  his  client's  discom- 
fiture, "that  the  disgruntled  depositors  had  de- 
serted the  front  doors  of  the  Interstate  and  the 
Tri-State,  and  had  formed  here,  waiting  to  see 
you " 

Morehead  got  no  further,  for  at  that  moment 
the  car  abruptly  stopped,  as  if  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice.  A  dirty  fist  was  thrust  into  the  car,  and 
an  extra  shoved  into  their  faces. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         in 

WILKINSON    WARNED! 

RUMOURS  RIFE  THAT  THE  CROWD  AT  CRIMINAL  COURT  WILL 
TRY  TO  KILL 

"  Stop  the  car !  Stop  the  car !  "  called  out  Wil- 
kinson frantically.  "Look  at  that  murderous 
gang  down  there !  Go  back — go  back !  Turn  the 
other  way — turn  the  car  around,  do  you  hear?" 

Morehead  held  up  his  hand. 

"  It's  all  right,  Francois.  Go  ahead !  "  he  com- 
manded. "  Go  right  ahead  and  nobody  will  no- 
tice us.  We'll  go  in  by  the  rear  entrance;  most 
of  the  crowd  are  in  front.  There  are  four  auto- 
mobiles there  already;  they've  probably  mistaken 
others  for  us.  The  crowd  don't  know  you,  Wil- 
kinson, from  Adam — wouldn't  know  you  from 
your  pictures  in  the  papers.  Besides,  there's  no 
danger;  there  never  is,  with  a  New  York  crowd. 
Drive  on ! " 

The  chauffeur  obeyed  him. 

Now  they -were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 
and  had  begun  slowly  to  eat  their  way  through  it 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  somebody  set  up  a  cry  of 
"  Wilkinson !  "  But  quick  as  a  flash,  Morehead 
leaned  over  the  side  of  the  car  and  shouted  to 
the  nearest  of  the  mob: 

"Has  Wilkinson  arrived?" 

The  answer  was  "  No ! "  And  at  once  word 
passed  quickly  that  the  car  did  not  contain  Wil- 


Ii2        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

kinson,  but  somebody  else.  Nevertheless,  to  Wil- 
kinson's fearful  eye  there  was  a  movement  here, 
there,  everywhere,  as  if  the  crowd,  or  some  few 
people  in  it,  had  realised  the  truth. 

Presently  Morehead  caught  sight  of  two  officers 
standing  on  the  steps.  To  these  the  Colonel 
waved  an  unseen  signal,  while  on  the  sidewalk 
Wilkinson's  faithful  Pinkertons  waited,  alert, 
quiet,  their  hands  in  their  coat  pockets. 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  Mastodon  man- 
aged to  draw  up  at  the  curb  before  a  spacious 
door,  the  two  officers  moving  out  to  meet  it,  the 
Pinkertons  flanking  it  on  the  other  side.  • 

"All  we  have  to  do,  you  see,"  said  Colonel 
Morehead,  "  is  to  make  a  dash  behind  these  uni- 
forms, and  a  second  more  and  we're  inside.  The 
crowd  will  be  fooled." 

But  the  crowd  was  not  fooled.  For  suddenly 
there  rose  upon  the  air  a  mighty  cry  as  if  from  a 
thousand  throats: 

"Wilkinson!  Wilkinson!  He's  here!  He's 
here!  This  way!  This  way!  There's  Wilkin- 
son ! "  A  moment's  silence,  and  then  more  cries 
of:  "Thief!  Forger!  Perjurer!  My  money 
— give  me  back  my  money!  .  .  .  Arg-gh 
Wilkinson  ...  !" 

"Now,  Wilkinson,"  whispered  the  Colonel, 
"keep  a  stiff  upper  lip;  don't  turn  a  hair.  Just 
get  out  of  the  car  and  walk  right  through.  I 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         113 

know     crowds — nothing    will    happen — nothing. 
Now    .    .    ." 

Colonel  Morehead  was  a  man  whose  orders 
were  generally  obeyed.  Consequently,  in  a  situ- 
ation like  this,  his  reassuring  words  carried  great 
weight,  and  the  men  with  him  in  the  car,  imme- 
diately following  his  example,  jumped  to  their 
feet.  For  an  instant  they  stood,  exposed  to  mer- 
ciless hootings,  preparing  to  alight;  and  in  that 
very  instant  there  suddenly  rang  out  a  revolver 
shot,  and  a  puff  of  smoke  floated  over  the  densest 
part  of  the  crowd,  while,  almost  simultaneously, 
one  of  the  four  men  in  the  car,  clutching  first  at 
the  air  and  then  at  his  throat,  plunged  head  fore- 
most into  the  street  below.  Just  how  it  happened 
the  police  never  knew,  but  all  remembered  hear- 
ing a  voice  cry  out:  "Wilkinson!" 

For  a  moment  that  seemed  hours,  the  trained 
Pinkertons  failed  to  rise  to  the  emergency,  but 
then  fairly  leaping  into  the  machine  and  dragging 
the  men  across  the  sidewalk,  they  thrust  them  into 
the  safety  within  the  hall  and  closed  the  doors  on 
them.  Out  again  and  into  the  street  dashed  the 
Pinkertons  with  the  two  uniformed  officers,  and 
there  they  picked  up  the  body  which  was  lying 
hideously  huddled  between  the  curb  and  the  ma- 
chine. As  for  Francois  the  chauffeur,  he  had 
fled. 

"  Get  back  there !     Get  back  there ! "  cried  the 


ii4         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

officers.  "  If  you  don't,  we'll  pull  our  clubs.  Get 
back!  Will  you  get  back  .  .  .  .! " 

But  the  frenzied  crowd  would  not  budge.  So 
the  officers,  with  their  backs  to  the  machine,  plied 
their  clubs  viciously  about  them,  but  even  then  the 
mob  persisted. 

"  It  served  him  right !  He  got  what  was  com- 
ing to  him ! "  came  from  all  sides. 

"  Get  back !  "  cried  the  officers,  standing  guard 
over  the  body  on  the  sidewalk.  Gently  one  of 
them  felt  of  the  dead  man,  opening  his  clothing 
at  the  neck,  felt  of  his  heart.  Now  the  officers 
shook  their  heads.  A  man  came  running  through 
the  crowd.  "  I'm  a  doctor,"  he  told  them ;  "  any- 
thing I  can  do?"  He,  too,  applied  the  tests. 
Presently  he  finished  and  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
announced : 

"  He's  dead — dead  as  a  door  nail." 

The  policemen  carried  the  body  into  the  huge 
building  and  laid  it  down  upon  the  stones. 

"Great  heavens!     It's  little  Pallister." 

The  exclamation  fell  from  the  lips  of  Peter  V. 
[Wilkinson  as  he  clutched  at  Colonel  Morehead  for 
support.  A  moment  later,  wiping  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  face,  he  added: 

"And  they  meant  that  for  me!" 


VIII 

DESPITE  the  efforts  of  his  counsel  to  pacify  him, 
it  was  fully  half  an  hour  before  Peter  V.  Wilkin- 
son recovered  from  his  fright.  Over  and  over 
again  he  wailed  in  the  lawyer's  ears,  "  But  they 
tried  to  do  it,  Morehead.  They  tried  to  kill  me, 
didn't  they?"  And  when,  at  last,  the  replies  to 
this  question  were  not  forthcoming,  he  asked,  be- 
tween little  fits  of  shivering,  what  plans  had  been 
made  to  get  him  away,  since  the  police  would 
probably  be  powerless  to  drive  away  the  crowd 
which  every  moment,  he  was  positive,  was  increas- 
ing because  of  the  excitement  and  their  knowledge 
now  that  he  was  in  the  building.  In  a  measure, 
however,  he  was  soon  reassured.  For  after  a 
loud  rap  on  the  railing,  the  Court  came  in,  and 
glancing  commiseratingly  at  Colonel  Morehead,  as 
if  apologising  for  an  act  of  violence,  he  shot  out 
a  stern  forefinger  towards  the  officers  and  cried 
out  in  a  sonorous  tone : 

"  Clear  the  court-room  at  once !  Next  thing 
you  know  we'll  have  violence  here." 

This  proceeding  took  some  little  time,  for  the 
court-room  was  crowded.  When  at  last  it  was 
cleared  the  Court,  bowing  respectfully  to  Colonel 
Morehead,  announced: 


n6        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"If  you're  ready,  Colonel  Morehead,  we'll 
have  the  indictments  read." 

The  Colonel  made  a  grimace. 

"We've  been  reading  them  all  night,  your 
Honour;  I  know  them  all  by  heart;  I  think  we, 
can  waive  having  them  read." 

"  Put  the  waiver  on  the  record,"  said  the  As- 
sistant District  Attorney  to  the  stenographer.  He 
nodded  toward  the  Court.  "The  District  Attor- 
ney is  most  particular  about  this  case." 

"How  do  you  plead  to  the  first,  Colonel?" 
asked  the  Court. 

"The  larceny  indictment?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  guilty." 

"  Forgery — eight  counts  there,  Colonel." 

"Not  guilty." 

"  Perjury — these  banking  reports — how  about 
it?" 

"  Not  guilty,"  repeated  Morehead  laconically. 
"And  now,  your  Honour,"  he  went  on,  adopting 
a  casual  tone,  "about  bail?" 

The  Court  inclined  his  head  toward  the  As- 
sistant District  Attorney. 

"  Any  suggestions?  " 

"  I  move,  your  Honour,"  said  the  assistant, 
"  that  bail  in  these  cases, — under  the  new  rule  laid 
down  in  the  Mitchell  case, — be  fixed  at  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars  on  each  charge." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         117 

Colonel  Morehead  stiffened  as  with  a  sudden 
shock. 

"Your  Honour,"  he  protested,  "this  is  prepos- 
terous! Every  defendant  is  entitled  to  have  bail 
fixed  at  a  reasonable  sum." 

"Then,"  went  on  the  assistant  with  asperity, 
"  if  Colonel  Morehead  makes  a  fuss  about  it,  I 
move,  your  Honour,  to  hold  this  defendant  in  the 
Tombs,  and  without  bail,  if  your  Honour  please. 
It  is,  in  this  case,  discretionary  with  your  Honour. 
People  vs.  Mitchell,  193  New  York." 

His  Honour  nodded  impartially  to  Colonel 
Morehead  and  the  Assistant  District  Attorney. 

For  a  while  he  gazed  into  space;  finally  he  said: 

"  Colonel  Morehead,  I  think  that  I  must  fix 
the  bail  suggested,  if  I  fix  any  bail  at  all." 

"This  is  barbarous,  prohibitive,  unconstitu- 
tional," groaned  Morehead.  "Why,  your  Hon- 
our, it  is  a  notorious  fact  that  my  client  is  a 
broken  man,  financially.  Where  can  he  get  three- 
quarters  of  a  million  bail?" 

The  Court's  eyes  sought  the  rear  wall.  He  had 
often  dined  with  Wilkinson,  had  been  entertained 
at  his  house,  but  this  made  no  difference  to  the 
Court. 

"  I  think,  Colonel,"  he  repeated,  this  time  with 
a  shade  more  emphasis,  "  that  I  must  fix  the  bail 
suggested,  if  I  am  to  fix  any  bail  at  all." 

Wilkinson,  the  present  calamity  fresh  upon  him, 


u8        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

was  trembling;  and  pressing  against  Colonel 
Morehead,  whispered  loudly  in  his  ear: 

"  Let  it  go  at  three-quarters  of  a  million,  Col- 
onel; we  can  raise  that  easy  enough." 

The  Colonel  turned  white  with  rage.  He 
looked  at  the  Assistant  District  Attorney  to  see  if 
that  gentleman  had  heard  the  remark.  Then, 
satisfied  that  he  had  not,  he  turned  swiftly  and 
ostentatiously  upon  his  client,  protesting: 

"  Mr,  Wilkinson,  I  am  managing  this  case,  not 
you.  Be  good  enough  to  let  me  manage  it  alone." 
Before  proceeding,  he  wiped  his  glasses  and 
blinked  his  eyes.  "Your  Honour,"  he  said  with 
considerable  pathos  in  his  tone,  "to  fix  this  bail 
means  that  my  client  must  be  incarcerated  in  the 
Tombs.  Who  among  all  his  friends  will  come 
forward  to-day  and  furnish  three-quarters  of  a 
million  dollars  bail?  Who,  indeed?  "  He  shook 
his  head.  "  Blessed  are  they  that  hath,  for  to 
them  shall  be  given.  But  to  him  that  hath  not, 
shall  be  taken  away,  even  that  he  hath.  Does  your 
Honour  still  persist?" 

"  Colonel  Morehead,"  said  the  Court,  "  I  shall 
cheerfuly  hold  this  man  without  bail  at  all,  if  you 
still  persist." 

Morehead  bowed. 

"We  shall  try  .  .  ."  and  his  voice  rang 
with  the  wail  of  a  funeral  bell,  "we  shall  try  to 
get  bail,  your  Honour." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         119 

"You  can't  furnish  it  now?"  asked  the  Court. 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  for  the  moon,"  re- 
turned Wilkinson's  counsel,  looking  the  picture  of 
grim  despair. 

The  Court's  eyelids  never  fluttered  as  he  or- 
dered : 

"  Take  the  prisoner  to  the  Tombs  in  default  of 
bail." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Wilkinson,"  declared  More- 
head,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

As  they  crossed  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  they  could 
hear  the  cries  of  the  crowd  below — a  crowd  fren- 
zied both  by  the  horror  of  the  crime  and  the  es- 
cape of  Wilkinson. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Wilkinson,  this  is  all 
right,"  said  Morehead  soothingly.  "  You're  going 
to  stay  in  the  Tombs  until  I  get  you  bail." 

"  I  can  put  it  up  in  half  an  hour,  you  fool ! " 
insisted  Wilkinson. 

"  But  you  won't,"  returned  his  counsel.  "  Not 
if  I  know  it.  If  you  put  up  bail  in  half  an 
hour,  they'll  find  out  where  it  comes  from;  and 
if  they  find  that  out,  they'll  find  out  all  the 
rest." 

Wilkinson  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,  Colonel,"  he  conceded. 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will." 

*  Yes,  you  must  do  as  I  say,  or  I'll  drop  this 
case,"  warned  the  Colonel.  "And  while  you're 


120        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

in  here,  you're  not  to  talk — not  a  word  to  any- 
one— do  you  understand  me?" 

"  But  how  long  will  I  be  in  here?  They  won't 
lock  me  up,  will  they?" 

"  Of  course  they  will." 

"Not  behind  the  bars — not  in  a  cell?" 

Morehead  nodded. 

"  I  won't  stand  for  it ! "  blustered  the  million- 
aire. 

Morehead  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  looked 
him  in  the  eye. 

"You've  got  to  do  as  I  say  to  the  letter,  or 
it  means  ruin,  ruin,  do  you  understand?  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about,  You  go  into  a  cell  with- 
out a  murmur.  The  newspapers — all  New  York 
will  talk  about  it;  everybody  will  know  that  Col- 
onel Morehead  is  gnashing  his  teeth  at  the  injus- 
tice shown  you.  Morehead  is  taking  an  appeal, 
they  will  say;  but  as  for  you,  you'll  keep  quiet  in 
your  cage  until  I  let  you  out.  It  won't  be  long; 
wait  and  see." 

They  passed  into  the  Tombs.  A  deputy  war- 
den nodded  to  Wilkinson. 

"  That  was  a  narrow  escape  you  had,  Mr.  Wil- 
kinson," he  said,  referring  to  the  tragedy  of  an 
hour  or  so  before. 

"  I — I  should  think  so,"  faltered  Wilkinson,  the 
cold  sweat  running  down  his  face.  "  Poor  Pallis- 
ter!  Have  they  got  the  murderer?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         121 

"No,"  said  the  warden,  "and  I  doubt  if 
they'll  ever  get  him,  either.  Still,  you  never  can 
tell.  .  .  ." 

"  If  they  should  find  out,  you'll  let  me  know  at 
once,  won't  you?"  urged  Wilkinson. 

The  warden  promised.  The  lawyer  and  his  cli- 
ent parted:  Colonel  Morehead  went  his  way;  Wil- 
kinson was  shown  into  a  cell. 

At  one  o'clock  that  day,  one  of  the  officials  un- 
locked the  door  of  his  cell  and  took  him  down 
into  a  counsel  room.  Sitting  there  at  a  table  was 
a  woman  with  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  father,  I  couldn't  stay  away!"  she  cried, 
springing  to  her  feet  and  smiling  bravely. 

"  Leslie — you  here — you !  "  And  the  next  mo- 
ment he  had  gathered  her  in  his  arms  and  was 
patting  the  head  that  rested  on  his  shoulders. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  that  you're  alive  and 
well,"  she  went  on  affectionately.  "  Colonel 
Morehead  told  me " 

"What's  Morehead  doing?"  broke  in  her 
father,  putting  her  gently  from  him. 

"Turning  my  stocks  and  bonds  into  cash,  or 
getting  a  surety  company  bond  on  them,  I  don't 
know  which.  Isn't  it  lucky,  father,  that  I  had 
enough — more  than  enough  to  help  you  out? 
The  Colonel  says  you  may  have  to  stay  here  two 
or  three  nights  .  .  ." 

Wilkinson  was  beside  himself. 


122         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  won't — I  won't  stay  here,"  he  raged.  "  I'll 
take  the  risk " 

"What  risk?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

Her  father  sobered. 

"  Oh,  Leslie,  I — I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying. 
Don't  mind  me — I'm  unnerved,  overwrought. 
Poor  Pallister  .  .  ." 

Leslie  burst  into  tears. 

"  Yes,  poor,  poor  Roy,"  she  murmured.  "  It 
was  awful — simply  awful !  I  was  so  fond  of  him, 
father.  He  was  always  so  kind,  so  thoughtful 
and  considerate,  and  devoted  to  your  interests, 
wasn't  he,  father?" 

Wilkinson  merely  inclined  his  head,  contenting 
himself  with  patting  her  hand  and  saying: 

"There,  there,  my  girl,  don't  cry." 

For,  truth  to  tell,  he  was  much  too  taken  up 
with  a  consideration  of  his  own  affairs  to  have 
any  time  for  other  people's  troubles,  much  less 
mourn  over  Roy  Pallister,  though,  in  his  way,  he 
was  undoubtedly  fond  of  the  little  chap.  How- 
ever, after  Leslie  had  calmed  down  sufficiently  to 
talk  connectedly  once  more,  he  not  only  listened, 
but  approved  of  the  girl's  suggestion  that  she 
offer  a  reward,  a  large  reward  for  the  discovery 
of  the  perpetrator  of  the  dastardly  crime. 

"Yes,  I  must  know,"  he  said  to  himself  when 
once  more  alone  in  his  cell.  "  Flomerfelt  must 
find  out  who  fired  that  shot.  Flomerfelt  will 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         123 

find  out.  .  .  .  What  would  I  do  without 
him?" 

But  the  question  would  surely  not  have  been 
asked  had  it  been  possible  for  him  to  have  over- 
heard the  conversation  that  took  place,  later,  be- 
tween Mrs.  Peter  Wilkinson  and  his  confidential 
man. 

As  Flomerfelt  entered  the  house,  Mrs.  Peter  V. 
Wilkinson  was  waiting  for  him. 

Flomerfelt  was  visibly  excited.  He  removed  his 
gloves  and  fell  to  pacing  lightly  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Peter  V. 

Flomerfelt  stopped  before  her,  his  white  lips 
drawn  tightly  against  his  teeth. 

"  My,  what  a  chance  for  an  enemy  in  that  big 
mob;  and  what  a  fumble!  " 

"Were  you  there?"  she  asked. 

Flomerfelt  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Trouble  is  something  that  I  sidestep.  I  ex- 
pected trouble  and  stayed  away." 

"You  expected  this?"  The  woman  looked  at 
him  incredulously. 

"Wilkinson  feared  it,  too,  I  think." 

"Why?" 

"The  depositors — the  mob " 

"  Was  it  one  of  the  depositors  who — who  killed 
Pallister?" 


124        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"How  should  I  know?"  And  again  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  eyed  his  coat-sleeves  and 
his  lean  wrists,  for  his  cuffs,  obeying  some  unwrit- 
ten law,  had  crept  up  and  out  of  sight.  He  jerked 
his  arms  again,  and  his  linen  darted  once  more 
into  view.  Again  he  scrutinised  it  carefully,  first 
glancing  upon  his  right  hand  and  then  upon  his 
left. 

Mrs.  Peter  V.  eyed  him  closely. 

"Doesn't  anybody  know  who  fired  the  shot?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Some  believe  the  depositors  did  it ;  others  a 
personal  enemy.  Wilkinson  feared  treachery,  I 
think.  A  reward  is  being  offered — a  rather  large 
reward,  I  think — ten  thousand  dollars." 

The  question,  "By  whom?"  hung  on  her  lips, 
but  was  interrupted  by  Flomerfelt,  who  went  on 
with: 

"  It  was  Leslie's  idea,  I  understand.  She  is  be- 
side herself — wants  to  avenge  Pallister." 

"  Sorry  about  him  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Peter  V., 
seemingly  sincere.  It  was  only  when  she  added, 
"  He  certainly  knew  how  to  hook  up  waists,"  that 
the  shallowness  of  the  woman's  mind  was  evident. 
And  even  Flomerfelt  recoiled  from  her  when,  a 
moment  later,  she  motioned  to  him  to  seat  him- 
self by  her  side. 

"Who  shot  at  Wilkinson?"  she  asked,  per- 
sistently, drawing  him  closer  to  her. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         125 

Flomerfelt  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand. 

"  As  we  remarked,  it  makes  but  little  difference 
now.  The  shot  went  wild." 

At  six  o'clock  that  night,  Eliot  Beekman  dined 
at  the  Iroquois  Hotel  in  Buffalo  with  J.  K.  With- 
eridge,  cashier  of  the  Bank  Le  Boeuf. 

"  You  were  so  successful,  Mr.  Beekman,"  said 
the  cashier,  when  coffee  and  cigars  had  arrived, 
"with  that  hopeless  Cantrell  mix-up  of  ours  in 
New  York,  that  we  thought  we  would  give  you  a 
harder  nut  to  crack'.  This  time  our  claim  is  for 
$50,000,  if  it's  a  cent" 

Beekman  pricked  up  his  ears.  This  was  worth 
a  hurried  trip  to  Buffalo  and  no  mistake. 

"Against  whom  is  your  claim?"  he  asked. 

"  One  reason  why  we  wanted  to  see  you  per- 
sonally," the  cashier  went  on  to  explain,  "  is  be- 
cause there  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of  secrecy 
involved  in  this  thing.  Our  claim  is  against  the 
Tri-State  Trust  Company — our  funds  on  deposit 
there.  We  want  to  get  them  back." 

"You  stand  a  small  chance  .  .  ."  quickly 
spoke  up  Beekman.  "  In  my  opinion,  Tri-State 
won't  pay  three  per  cent." 

"Admitting  all  that,"  conceded  the  cashier, 
"it's  not  the  Tri-State  Trust  Company  that  I 
want  you  to  tackle;  I  want  you  to  find  its  funds." 


126         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Funds?    It  hasn't  any!" 

"  Of  course  it  hasn't,  but  we're  satisfied — and 
other  banks  are  satisfied — that  somebody's  got  its 
funds.  And  the  fellow  that  gets  in  first  and  right, 
is  going  to  get  his  claim  paid  in  full.  That's  why 
we  sent  for  you.  The  man  we've  got  to  fight  is 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson." 

"Peter  V.  Wilkinson!"  echoed  the  other. 
"And  you  say  he's " 

"We  claim  he's  bagged  the  spoils." 

Beekman  laughed  outright. 

"  Why,  man,  he's  smashed — ruined !  He  hasn't 
got  a  dollar  to  his  name.  I  know  him." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes.  And  I'll  tell  you  where  I  think  you're 
off  the  track.  His  daughter  has  money — money 
of  her  own.  It  came  from  her  mother — Wilkin- 
son's first  wife.  I  have  no  doubt  that  all  these 
rumours  about  Wilkinson's  cash, — although  this 
is  the  first  I've  heard  about  it, — come  from  the 
fact  that  his  daughter  has  money." 

"  Pshaw !  She  has  less  than  a  million  dollars — 
we  have  the  facts  on  that.  We're  not  thinking 
about  that;  we  believe  Wilkinson  has  got  upwards 
of  fifty  millions  packed  away." 

Again  Beekman  laughed. 

"If  you  were  in  New  York  you  wouldn't  say 
that.  Everybody  there  knows  that  Wilkinson  is  a 
wreck." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         137 

"  Nevertheless  we  have  our  theory.  We're  will- 
ing to  pay  the  shot,"  declared  Witheridge.  "  Now, 
is  there  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  go  on — tell 
you  the  rest — the  confidential  details?  In  other 
words,  Mr.  Beekman,  is  there  any  reason  why  you 
should  not  take  up  this  case  and  probe  Wilkinson 
to  the  finish?" 

Beekman  thought  for  a  while,  weighing  care- 
fully the  other's  words.  There  was  reputation  in 
this  thing ;  moreover,  he  felt  that  it  would  do  Wil- 
kinson no  harm,  for  he  was  convinced  of  Wilkin- 
son's honesty  of  purpose.  He  saw  no  reason  why 
honest  business  should  be  refused.  More  than 
that,  this  Bank  Le  Boeuf  had,  in  times  past,  em- 
ployed him  as  its  counsel,  and  all  through  din- 
ner Witheridge  had  been  pouring  praises  in  his 
ear. 

"  I  hope  you  can  take  it,"  pressed  Witheridge, 
"  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there's  nobody  in  New 
York  that  we'd  rather  have  than  you.  We've  that 
much  confidence  in  you  .  .  ." 

But  Beekman  still  balked. 

"  If  I  take  this  case,  I  needn't  assure  you,  Mr. 
Witheridge,  that  you  may  depend  on  me.  The 
only  reason  why  I  hesitate  is  because  I  know  the 
man's  daughter.  But  once  I  decide  to  take  the 
case  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment  a  waiter  laid  down  an  evening 
paper  before  Beekman;  he  glanced  at  it,  revolv- 


128        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ing  the  proposition  the  while  in  his  mind.  Sud- 
denly he  started  and  cried  out : 

"Great  Scott!  The  man  we're  talking  about — 
shot  .  .  ." 

"Killed?"  gasped  Witheridge. 

"No — it's  his  private  secretary  that  was  killed." 
And  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  paper,  "  No,  wait. 
There's  more.  Wilkinson  is  held  in  three-quarter 
of  a  million  bail.  I  heard  this  morning  that  he 

was  indicted,  but  I  never  expected And, 

Caesar's  ghost!  They've  locked  him  up  in  the 
Tombs  and  in  default  of  bail.  That's  rough !  " 

"My  dear  Beekman,"  grinned  Witheridge, 
"don't  you  see  that  it's  all  a  game — all  but  the 
killing?  Say  that  you'll  take  the  case,  then  I  can 
go  on — tell  you  the  rest." 

But  whatever  would  have  been  Eliot's  decision  at 
that  moment,  he  was  not  permitted  to  give  it 
utterance.  For  just  then  he  heard  some  one  call- 
ing out  his  name;  and,  glancing  up,  he  saw  a 
boy  approaching  him  with  a  telegram  in  his 
hand. 

"  Mr.  Beekman  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

Beekman  took  the  message,  which  said: 

ELIOT  BEEKMAN,  ESQ., 

Hotel  Iroquois,  Buffalo,  N.  T. 

Too  are  retained  in  People  vs.  Wilkinson  as  counsel  for  de- 
fence.   Take  the  first  train  for  New  York. 

MOREHEAD. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         129 

After  grasping  its  contents,  Beekman  quickly 
passed  it  over  to  his  host  with  the  one  word: 
"  Read.V  And  then  he  added: 

"This  is  a  retainer,  Mr.  Witheridge,  that  I 
cannot  very  well  refuse.  You  see,"  he  was  smil- 
ing now,  "  I  know  his  daughter." 


IX 

TEN  men  crowded  into  the  office  of  Assistant 
District  Attorney  Leech,  ten  men  of  various  sizes 
and  complexions,  ten  men  upon  whom  sat  un- 
doubted respectability,  and  yet  in  whose  eyes 
gleamed  a  gnawing  anxiety — a  strange  excite- 
ment. 

A  deputy  assistant  district  attorney — or  a  d. 
a.  d.  a.,  as  they  call  them  there,  received  the 
delegation  coldly. 

"What  in  thunder  is  this  mob  doing  here?"  he 
asked. 

The  ten  men  nodded  toward  their  spokesman; 
he  leaned  against  the  d.  a.  d.  a.'s  desk. 

"  Chief  clerk  sent  us  here,"  he  said. 

"What  about?"   asked  his  cross-examiner. 

The  spokesman  drew  from  his  pocket  a  folded 
paper  and  opened  it  wide  for  the  other  to  read. 

"  Ten  Thousand  Dollars  Reward  for  informa- 
tion leading  to  the  Conviction  of  the  Murderer 
of  Roy  Pallisler,"  is  what  he  read,  after  which 
the  d.  a.  d.  a.  looked  at  it  curiously,  and  added: 
"Well?  What  then?" 

"Well,"  said  the  spokesman,  as  the  ten  men 
crowded  closely  about  him,  "we've  got  informa- 
tion— see?" 

130 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         131 

"What  information?" 

For  answer  he  drew  forth  a  weapon — an  ugly- 
looking  weapon :  a  hammerless  revolver,  with  one 
chamber  empty. 

The  d.  a.  d.  a.  sniffed  with  some  excitement. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  he  demanded.  Sur- 
reptitiously he  nodded  to  a  uniformed  attend- 
ant, who  as  surreptitiously  shut  the  door  and 
locked  it. 

"  Picked  it  up  the  day  young  Pallister  was 
killed,"  went  on  the  spokesman,  "picked  it  up 
where  the  man  that  used  it  left  it  lying — when  he 
ran  away. " 

The  assistant  glanced  at  him  sharply. 

"Why  didn't  you  pass  it  over  right  away?"  he 
demanded. 

The  ten  men  shrugged  their  shoulders,  but  it 
was  their  spokesman  who  explained: 

"  In  that  crowd,"  he  returned  slowly,  "  there 
was  too  much  excitement  already.  These  here 
saw  me  pick  it  up,  and  we  talked  about  it — talked 
about  it  slow  and  cold.  We  didn't  want  to  be 
mobbed  ourselves,  even  by  the  cops;  we  didn't 
want  to  be  taken  for  the  murderer — you  under- 
stand? So  we  closed  in  around  this  gun,  y'see, 
and  we  kept  it  close,  till  now."  He  grinned  sheep- 
ishly. "Besides,"  he  added,  "our  savings  has 
been  lost  in  the  Tri-State  Trust,  and  we  was  kind 
p'  waitin'  for  somethin'  of  this  kind,"  he  pointed 


132        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

to  the  advertised  reward,  "  thinking  maybe 
we  could  even  up  somehow,  y'see." 

"  I  see,"  returned  the  assistant,  grimly.  "  I  see 
that  you  had  no  right  to  wait  an  instant  when 
you  got  this  thing  in  your  fist."  He  waved  his 
hand.  "Never  mind  that  now,  but  tell  me  who 
did  the  killing.  Did  you  know  the  man?" 

The  ten  men  shook  their  heads. 

"We  seen  no  man,"  one  blurted  out,  "a  hand 
— that's  all  I  see." 

"That's  all  we  see,"  assented  the  spokesman, 
looking  to  his  fellows  for  affirmance,  "  a  hand 
and  a  shot.  It  was  all  so  quick.  We  asked  every- 
body; nobody  seen  anything — just  a  hand  and  a 
shot,  that's  all." 

The  assistant  frowned. 

"Do  you  suspect  who  did  it?"  he  interrogated. 

Blankly  they  shook  their  heads. 

The  d.  a.  d.  a.  shot  out  a  forefinger. 

"Tell  me  about  that  mass  meeting  of  the  sav- 
ings depositors  held  the  night  before  the  murder?  " 
he  demanded,  at  a  venture. 

They  returned  his  query  with  a  stare. 

"  There  wasn't  any  mass  meeting  that  we  know 
of,"  they  said. 

He  rapped  upon  the  table  and  nodded  to  the 
uniformed  attendant. 

"  You  know  what  to  do,"  he  said. 

Evidently  the  attendant  did;  for  after  a  short 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         133 

space  of  time  he  unlocked  the  door,  and  six  plain- 
clothes-men  pounced  upon  the  spokesman. 

"  But  I  didn't  do  it !  "  yelled  the  big  man  who 
had  handed  over  the  ferocious-looking  gun. 

"  He  didn't  do  it !  "  cried  the  other  men  behind. 

"  Aw,  come  on ! "  said  the  officer  of  the  law, 
"  we'll  lock  the  whole  kit  an'  boodle  of  you  up  as 
witnesses.  What — you  won't?  Come  on — Come 
on!" 

"  But  don't  you  forget  that  we  furnished  infor- 
mation," called  back  the  spokesman,  "that  may 
lead  to  the  conviction  of  somebody,  and  when  that 
happens,  we  want  that  ten,  y'see?" 

It  was  not  long  before  the  news  of  the  discovery 
of  the  pistol  became  known.  So  that  when  Leslie 
arrived  on  a  visit  to  her  father,  and  asked  an 
officer  if  there  had  been  any  developments  in  re- 
gard to  her  advertisement  in  the  paper,  she  was 
answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Father,  dear,"  she  cried,  excitedly,  when  they 
were  alone,  "  listen  to  me.  I  can't  sleep  to-night 
unless  it  can  be  arranged  for  me  to  see  that  pistol 

that  was  found.  I  have  a  fancy  that "  She 

stopped  short. 

"A  fancy — what?"  he  demanded  suddenly. 

"That  I  may  have  seen  it  once  before,"  she 
continued. 

Wilkinson  called  an  officer. 

The  officer  took  Leslie  across  the  bridge  and 


134         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

into  the  other  part  of  the  building  where  the  pistol 
was  to  be  seen.  Its  custodian  watched  the  girl 
narrowly  as  she  looked  upon  it;  but  she  gave  no 
sign. 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw  that  one  before," 
she  volunteered. 

Back  again  with  her  father,  she  whispered 
eagerly  in  his  ear: 

"Father,  oh,  father,  what  am  I  to  do?  That 
gun  there  is  the  very  gun  that  Giles  Ilingsworth 
had  in  our  house  that  day.  It's  the  same — the 
very  same,  I'm  sure  of  it.  What  am  I  to  do?  " 

Wilkinson  uttered  an  oath  under  his  breath. 

"  We'll  give  him  up,  that's  what  we'll  do ! 
We'll  hunt  him  down !  "  he  said  excitedly.  "  He 
tried  to  kill  me,  and  he  did  kill  little  Pallister." 

He  stood  there  staring  at  her,  his  face  growing 
whiter  all  the  time.  He  was  about  to  speak  again 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Colo- 
nel Morehead. 

Through  the  lawyer's  mind,  as  he  looked  at 
Wilkinson  and  his  daughter,  a  number  of  impres- 
sions were  passing.  The  three  days'  confinement  in 
a  cell  had  left  its  traces  on  the  multi-millionaire: 
a  terrible  depression  was  on  him,  his  shoulders 
were  hunched,  and  his  eyes  lustreless.  With  Les- 
lie, of  course,  there  was  no  such  great  change, 
though  her  lips  were  trembling,  her  eyes  wide  and 
searching,  and  her  figure  seemed  shrunken.  In 


. 

THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         135 

other  words,  the  shadow  of  the  Tombs  was  upon 
them  all.  All — the  word  is  used  advisedly,  for 
Morehead,  himself,  was  by  no  means  in  a  normal 
condition.  Veteran,  though  he  unquestionably 
was,  he  had  shivered  as  if  with  dread  the  moment 
he  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  jail.  Hun- 
dreds of  times,  it  is  true,  he  had  passed  in  and  out 
without  let  or  hinderance,  and  yet  upon  every  oc- 
casion this  indescribable  sense  of  dread — the  clutch 
of  terror,  the  stretching  out  of  the  cold,  clammy 
hand  of  penal  servitude,  the  horribly  silent  elo- 
quence of  bolt  and  bar — was  ever  present.  Cus- 
tom had  not  staled  it;  it  bit  into  him  with  terrible 
force. 

But  whatever  he  felt,  he  gave  no  sign.  To-day, 
as  always,  he  had  merely  nodded  to  the  door-man 
as  he  passed  in,  strode  down  the  narrow  passage- 
way and  pushed  through  the  turn-stile.  At  that 
point,  however,  he  had  been  confronted  by  the 
deputy  warden  of  the  jail. 

"  Counsellor,"  asked  big  Bill  Steen  with  unac- 
customed caution  in  his  tone,  "  who  was  you  look- 
ing for?" 

The  Counsellor  smiled. 

"You  have  only  one  of  my  birds  shut  up  in 
your  aviary,  Bill.  Obviously,  he's  the  man  I  wish 
to  see." 

Big  Bill  nodded,  still  with  suspicious  caution. 

"Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  I  suppose?" 


136        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Precisely,"  returned  the  Colonel,  and  was 
starting  on. 

"  One  moment,  Counsellor,"  went  on  the  dep- 
uty, detaining  him.  "You  an'  me  is  old  friends, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings.  But  I  have 
been  warned  by  Murgatroyd.  The  District  At- 
torney is  most  particular  about  this  case."  And 
a  curious  expression  crossed  his  face,  as  he  added : 
"  You  must  admit,  Counsellor,  that  we  don't  often 
have  a  guy  locked  up  here — worth  millions  and 
charged  with  larceny,  forgery  and  perjury,  all  at 
once,  and  who's  waitin'  for  three-quarters  of  a 
million  bail." 

"  No,  it  isn't  an  everyday  occurrence,  I 
acknowledge.  Now,  will  you  bring  him  down,  or 
shall  I  go  up  to  him?" 

Again  the  deputy  shook  his  head. 

"  Counsellor,  District  Attorney  Murgatroyd 
says  be  careful,  and  I  got  to,  even  with  an  old 
friend  like  you.  If  there's  any  attempt  at  an  es- 
cape,— and  a  man  who's  said  to  be  worth  millions 
and  wants  to  get  out  of  jail — well,  sometimes, 
locks  will  turn  and  bars  will  break.  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  take  so  many  millions  to " 

Colonel  Morehead  looked  straight  into  the  eyes 
of  big  Bill  Steen,  with  that  confidential  look  which 
had  won  him  many  juries. 

"  Bill,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  suppose  he 
wasn't  worth  millions — only  a  fraction  of  a  mil- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         137 

lion !  And  suppose  he  couldn't  get  bail  I  How 
much  would  you  take,  Bill,  to  let  him  go?  How 
much?  A  hundred  thousand,  two  hundred,  a 
quarter  of  a  million?  Come — say  the  word." 

The  deputy  indignantly  drew  away. 

"  Counsellor,"  he  protested,  "  you  couldn't  touch 
me  with  ten  million.  I  wouldn't  let  him  off  for 
that." 

Morehead's  smile  was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

"  Steen,"  he  went  on  severely,  "you'll  let  him 
off  for  less.  Oh,  yes,  yes  you  will;  I  know  all 
about  you,  one  hour  won't  pass  before  you'll  be 
sending  a  man  upstairs  to  let  Wilkinson  out. 
Come,  call  it  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  .  .  . 
No?  Then  two  .  .  .  two  and  a  half " 

"  Not  on  your  life  1 "  returned  Steen,  raising  a 
deprecating  hand. 

Colonel  Morehead  fixed  his  hypnotic  eye  upon 
the  other,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket,  pulled 
out  a  paper,  and  held  it  under  the  nose  of 
Steen. 

"Look  at  that,  Bill,"  he  insisted,  "and  see 
whether  my  prophecy  comes  true." 

The  deputy  warden  opened  the  paper,  glanced 
at  it  and  grinned. 

"Quit  your  kiddin',  Counsellor!  Why  didn't 
you  say  all  along  that  you'd  given  bail?" 

"  You  can  send  it  to  your  friend  Murgatroyd," 


138         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

concluded  Morehead,  "  and  make  sure  it's  O.  K. 
I'll  go  up  to  Wilkinson." 

Colonel  Morehead,  on  leaving  the  warden,  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  disgust.  With 
an  effort,  however,  he  shook  it  off,  and  there  was 
a  semblance,  at  least,  of  a  smile  on  his  face  when 
he  appeared,  as  has  been  said,  before  Wilkinson 
and  his  daughter  in  the  counsel  room. 

"They're  going  to  let  you  out,  Peter,"  he  an- 
nounced, seating  himself  at  a  table  and  squaring 
his  elbows,  *'  and  right  away." 

"  I  thought  they  never  would,"  was  Wilkin- 
son's answer.  "  These  three  days  have  seemed 
more  like  three  years  to  me.  ...  So  you  got 
it  through,  did  you?  Surety  Company  fix  it 
up  .  .  .  ?" 

"  I  got  the  Court  to  reduce  the  bail  to  half  a 
million ;  your  daughter  Leslie  and  the  Surety  Com- 
pany did  the  rest." 

Leslie  started. 

"  I !    Why  I  didn't  know  that  I  did  anything?  " 

Colonel  Morehead  smiled. 

"  You  assigned  two-thirds  of  your  own  fortune 
• — stocks  and  bonds — to  the  surety  company  to 
secure. them.  So  if  Peter  V.  skips  his  bail— runs 
away," — he  was  leering  at  him  now, — "you  stand 
to  lose,  you  see." 

"  Runs  away,"  repeated  Leslie.  The  words 
were  like  music  to  her  ears.  "What  a  splendid 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         139 

idea !  It  would  be  the  best  way  out  of  it,  after 
all.  You  could  take  the  Marchioness,"  she  went 
on  enthusiastically,  "  and  steam  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth!" 

"  Haven't  I  told  you,  Colonel,  that  she  was  a 
hard-headed  little  proposition,"  said  her  father, 
with  a  good  deal  of  pride.  "  Not  a  bad  idea,  the 
Marchioness.  Now,  if — if  I  were  guilty,  instead 
of  being  innocent.  ..." 

Colonel  Morehead  grunted. 

"  Do  you  think  that  your  steam  yacht  the 
Marchioness  is  any  match  for  District  Attorney 
Murgatroyd?  He'd  find  you  even  in  uncharted 
seas,  and  bring  you  back." 

"It's  all  O.  K.,  Counsellor,"  called  out  Bill 
Steen,  tapping  on  the  door;  "you  can  go  now!" 

Steen  unlocked  the  door  of  the  dingy  little 
room.  And  as  Peter  Wilkinson  started  to  go, 
Steen  intercepted  him  and  held  out  his  hand,  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  finally  said: 

"  It  ain't  often  that  we  have  a  man  of  your 
standing,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  in  our  hotel.  Would 
you  mind  a-shakin'  hands  before  you  go?" 

Wilkinson  shook  hands  with  a  will. 

"  Here's  hoping  that  we  may  never  see  you  here 
again,"  said  Steen,  cordially. 

"You  can  be  sure  of  that,"  answered  Wilkin- 
son, with  just  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  his  lips. 
At  the  entrance  he  stood  an  instant  and  looked  up 


i4o        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

into  the  sky.  "  Free,"  he  breathed,  as  to  himself. 
Leslie  clung  to  his  arm,  and  pressed  her  hand 
against  her  face.  They  started  down  the  steps, 
tmt  Wilkinson  drew  back. 

"The  crowds — the  crowds — they'll  mob  me 
again ! "  he  cried,  his  huge  frame  shaking  like  a 
leaf. 

Morehead  caught  him  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"  Come,  Peter,  brace  up,  take  a  big  grip  on 
yourself!"  were  his  reassuring  words.  "There's 
no  mob,  no  one  who  knows  you,  anyhow.  You 
don't  look  so  different  from  a  lot  of  other  men." 

Wilkinson  shook  himself  and  clenched  his 
liands. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  he  declared,  "I  lost  my 
nerve  in  there."  After  a  long  intake  of  breath, 
he  added:  "That's  the  last  time  they'll  ever  get 
me  in  there,  the  last  time,  mark  my  words,  More- 
head.  There  were  times  when  I  came  near  biting 
the  bars.  Think  of  me  being  locked  up !  "  They 
had  reached  the  corner  of  the  street.  He  halted. 
"There  was  a  chap  in  the  cell  next  to  mine,"  he 
went  on,  "who'd  been  sent  up  for  five  years. 
Think  of  it !  He  was  waiting  to  be  taken  up  the 
river  any  day — didn't  seem  to  mind  it,  either. 
Five  years  in  a  place  like  that " 

"The  machine's  around  on  Lafayette 
Street,"  interrupted  the  Colonel.  "I  thought  it 
better.  . " 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         141 

"  Right,"  declared  Wilkinson.  "  But  we  don't 
need  it  yet." 

Leslie  turned  to  Colonel  Morehead;  her  eyes 
were  bright,  her  cheeks  red  with  excitement. 

"Why  did  my  father  have  to  stay  in  there; 
can  you  tell  me  that?"  she  asked. 

"  The  bail  was  stupendous.  I  had  arranged  for 
reasonable  bail;  but  this  was  unusual,"  the  Colo- 
nel explained.  '"  But  that's  not  all — the  surety 
companies  had  been  warned." 

"Warned!  Did  you  say  warned  not  to  give 
bail  when  they  were  secured?"  she  cried. 

"Warned,"  repeated  Morehead,  "not  to  fur- 
nish bail  without  being  sure  that  they  were  secure." 

"Who  warned  them?"  echoed  Wilkinson,  in- 
credulous. 

"  The  Morning  Mail,"  began  the  Colonel,  but 
was  interrupted  by  Wilkinson: 

"  Phew !    And  who  owns  the  Morning  Mail?  " 

Morehead  smiled. 

"  Check  and  countercheck,"  he  grinned. 
"  Ougheltree  and  his  gang  have  just  bought  it." 
Turning  to  Leslie,  he  explained  that  Ougheltree 
was  the  President  of  the  Twentieth  Century  Na- 
tional Bank.  "  The  National  Banks  have  formed  in 
line  to  fight  the  Trust  Companies,"  he  told  her, 
"because  the  Trust  Companies,  having  bigger 
powers,  attract  more  people.  And  they've  opened 
fire  on  your  father,  first,  and  his  string  of  Trust 


142         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Companies."  And  now  once  more  he  turned  to 
Wilkinson,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  he  said :  "  Do  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking  just  this  morning?  I  think  you  ought 
to  buy  a  daily  paper.  I  do,  indeed!  This  is  a 
crisis " 

"  Btit  I  already  own  a  paper,"  objected  Wilkin- 
son. 

"  I  mean  a  good  one.  My  idea  would  be  to  buy 
— well,  say  the  Daily  Reporter.  It's  a  crackerjack 
sheet  that's  just  begun  to  go  down  hill.  It  can  be 
bought  cheap,  too." 

Leslie  tightened  her  grasp  on  her  father's  arm. 

"  Let  me  buy  it  for  you,  father,  that  is,  if  there's 
money  enough  left  to  buy  it  with." 

Morehead's  attention  was  directed  afresh 
toward  Leslie. 

"  Let  me  go  on,  Miss  Leslie,"  he  continued. 
"There  were  other  reasons  why  haste  was  inad- 
visable. The  Morning  Mail,  owned  by  this  gang 
of  national  bankers,  is  trying  to  poison  public 
opinion  against  your  father.  If  we  had  instantly 
snapped  a  bail  bond  of  three-quarters  of  a  mil- 
lion dollars  on  the  files,  the  Mail  would  have 
charged  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  with  being  a  rich 
man  still,  having  the  money  of  the  masses  in  his 
coat-tail  pocket.  It  was  wise  and  necessary,  too, 
for  me  to  forestall  this.  I  gave  to  every  news- 
paper in  the  city  the  pedigree  of  the  stocks  and 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         143 

bonds  that  you  put  up,  showing  that  they  were  the 
individual  property  of  your  mother,  and  had  come 
down  to  you  direct.  The  result  is  that  the  Morn- 
ing Mail  had  not  a  word  to  say.  We've  got  to 
be  mighty  careful,"  he  concluded,  "about  public 
opinion.  For  there's  a  trial  waiting  for  us  out 
there  in  the  future." 

There  was  determination  in  the  girl's  voice  as 
she  answered  excitedly: 

"  And  we'll  win  it,  too !  " 

Wilkinson  snorted. 

"  Of  course  we'll  win !  "  he  cried. 

"We'll  win,"  conceded  Morehead,  "but  only 
after  some  shrewd  counsellor-at-law — naming  no 
names — has  mapped  out  the  campaign." 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Wilkinson,  "  that  we 
must  put  Flomerfelt  on  to  this." 

"  Never  mind  Flomerfelt  just  now,"  advised 
Morehead.  "  Our  first  step  is  to  buy  a  live  news- 
paper and  start  in.  And  the  first  thing  that's 
going  to  be  chalked  up  to  the  methods  of  the 
Morning  Mail,  is  the  murderous  mob  that's  re- 
sponsible for  the  murder  of  Pallister  three  days 
ago." 

They  had  started  for  Lafayette  Street,  but  Wil- 
kinson held  them  back. 

"Who's  going  to  try  my  case,  Morehead?"  he 
queried.  "Which  one  of  Murgatroyd's  men?" 

Colonel  Morehead  smiled  enigmatically. 


144         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Assistant  District  Attorney  J.  Newton  Leech 
is  the  man.  My  information  is  direct — direct 
from  the  inside." 

Wilkinson  literally  dragged  them  across  the 
street. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  we'll  go  in  and  see  As- 
sistant District  Attorney  Leech  right  away." 

Morehead  interposed,  and  demanded: 

"What  for?" 

"Just  to— er — throw  a  sop  to  Cerberus,"  said 
Wilkinson.  "  Come,  come  along  with  me." 

Wilkinson's  cringing  manner  of  a  little  while 
before  had  left  him.  His  shoulders  once  more 
were  straight,  his  Van  Dyke  belligerent.  He  had 
assumed  his  position  as  a  leader  of  men. 

"  Both  you  and  Leslie  come  along  with  me," 
he  repeated.  "  I'm  going  to  scratch  Leech's  back, 
and  maybe,  one  of  these  days,  he'll  scratch  mine." 

They  were  ushered  forthwith  into  the  Assist- 
ant District  Attorney's  outer  office.  His  private 
door  was  open,  and  they  could  hear  his  even  voice 
within.  His  tones  were  mingled,  however,  with 
those  of  a  woman — a  pleading,  tearful  woman, 
judging  from  her  voice.  Wilkinson's  card  was 
sent  in  to  Leech ;  and  the  instant  that  the  Assistant 
District  Attorney  saw  it,  his  straight  lips  widened 
into  a  pleasant  smile.  He  came  out  to  greet  the 
three  almost  instantly,  singled  out  Morehead  and 
held  out  his  hand. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         145 

"  Colonel,"  he  said  in  his  sprightly  and  yet  con- 
fidential manner,  "  mighty  glad  to  see  you."  And 
now  turning  his  gaze  on  Wilkinson,  he  added: 
"  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  that  you  won't  care 
to  shake  hands  with  me;  but  I  assure  you  I  won't 
bite — not  just  yet,  at  any  rate.'* 

Wilkinson  shook  hands  warmly,  and  haw-hawed 
in  a  most  approved  and  business-like  manner. 
Leech  now  turned  swiftly  to  Leslie,  and  then 
stopped,  embarrassed. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,"  began  Colonel  Morehead. 

"  Mr.  Leech,  this  is  my  daughter,  Miss 
Wilkinson,"  said  Peter  V.,  snatching  the  words 
from  the  Colonel's  mouth,  and  then  without 
giving  Leech  the  opportunity  to  make  the  usual 
acknowledgment,  he  hurriedly  went  on  in  a  loud, 
commanding  voice :  "  Now,  Leslie,  dear,  I  want 
you  to  tell  Assistant  District  Attorney  Leech  of 
the  threats  that  this  man  Ilingsworth  made  to  you 
the  other  day." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Leech,  stepping  to 
the  inner  door  and  closing  it  quietly,  for  Wilkin- 
son's words  had  brought  an  exclamation  to  the 
lips  of  the  woman  in  the  adjoining  room,  that  had 
reached  his  ears.  Leech  came  back  almost  in- 
stantly and  placed  chairs  for  them  all. 

"Tell  him  all  you  know,  Leslie,"  commanded 
her  father. 

The  girl's  breath  came  quick  and  short.     Her 


H6         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

father's  words  had  come  as  a  shock  to  her,  and 
she  looked  about  her  helplessly. 

"  Father,  I'd  much  prefer  not,"  she  protested. 

Morehead  did  not  altogether  approve  of  the 
proceeding,  chiefly  because  he  had  not  been  con- 
sulted upon  it,  and  he  interjected  gravely: 

"Are  we  sure,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  that  she  knows 
anything  of  the  affair?  " 

Wilkinson  did  not  deign  even  to  glance  at  his 
counsel,  and  ignoring  the  girl's  protests,  and 
brushing  aside  or  rather  pushing  his  way  through 
lier  objections,  as  was  his  wont,  with  his  shoulders, 
he  repeated: 

"Leslie,  I  want  you  to  tell  Assistant  District 
Attorney  Leech  all  that  you  know  about  this  man 
Ilingsworth — all — you  understand." 

Leslie,  with  difficulty,  controlled  herself,  and 
cried  out: 

"  Father,  this  is  a — a  case  of  murder.  I  can't 
be  the  accuser.  .  .  .  Don't  drag  me  into  it — 
please.  ..." 

A  dull  red,  angry  colour  crept  up  over  Wilkin- 
son's collar,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"  Leslie,  don't  you  understand  what  this  man 
Ilingsworth  has  done  He's  killed  my  private 
secretary  Pallister!  It's  your  duty.  ,.,  .  .  How 
are  you  going  to  escape  .  .  .  ?  " 

Leech  tiptoed  back  to  the  door  of  his  private 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         147 

office  and  gently  closed  the  transom,  which  was 
open. 

"  In  order  to  relieve  you,  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he 
now  said,  and  his  voice  was  reassuring,  "  I  may 
as  well  tell  you  that  we  have  established,  beyond 
all  doubt,  proofs  of  Ilingsworth's  guilt.  We  have 
people  who  say  they  saw  him  in  the  crowd;  we've 
found  the  man  who  sold  him  the  gun,  and  we've 
shown  him  Ilingsworth's  photograph,  which  he 
identifies  as  unquestionably  the  man." 

"  But  you  haven't  got  Ilingsworth  ?  "  quickly  in- 
terposed Morehead. 

"Not  yet,"  and  Leech  fastened  his  eyes  on  Les- 
lie. "  Can  you  have  any  idea  as  to  where  he  is?  " 

The  three  dissented  silently. 

"We'll  get  him  yet,"  smiled  Leech.  "It  is 
rare  that  we  do  not  succeed  in  landing  a  person 
when  once  we  start  out  to,"  he  went  on,  his  glance 
shifting  to  Wilkinson,  who  met  it  in  open  and 
genial  defiance. 

;'  You — you  have  time  to  hear  what  my  daughter 
has  to  say?"  asked  Wilkinson,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  he  added:  "I  think  now  is 
the  time  to  take  it  down — and " 

Leech  rose  abruptly. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,  you  would  know  this  man 
Ilingsworth,  I  suppose,  if  you  saw  him?" 

"Yes,"   faltered  Leslie,   "I  should  know  the 


148        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

man.  But  his  pictures  in  the  daily  papers — I 
should  never  have  known  him  from  those." 

"Just  a  moment,  until  I  get  his  photograph," 
whispered  the  Assistant  District  Attorney,  opening 
the  inside  door;  presently  he  returned,  closing  the 
door  again  behind  him,  and  advancing  towards 
them  he  resumed  confidingly :  "  The  fact  is,  I've 
got  Ilingsworth's  daughter  inside  there.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  knew  where  the  old 
man  is,  either,  though  she  insists  that  she  does  not, 
and " 

Wilkinson  grunted. 

"And  you're  practising  third-degree  tactics  on 
her,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

;<  Well,  not  exactly  that,  but  persuasion — polite 
persuasion,  that's  all,"  explained  the  Assistant 
District  Attorney,  smiling.  He  stepped  once 
more  toward  the  inner  door,  and  Leslie,  obeying 
some  hidden  impulse,  darted  quickly  to  his  side. 

"Will  you  let  me  see  her  without  being  seen," 
she  pleaded.  "He  told  me  all  about  her — her 
name  is  Elinor." 

"  Stand  here,  then,"  whispered  Leech,  and  open- 
ing the  door  swiftly,  he  passed  over  to  the  window 
and  held  the  girl  within  in  conversation  while  he 
searched  among  his  papers,  and  in  such  a  manner 
that  three-quarters  of  her  countenance  was  turned 
toward  Leslie.  One  glance  at  the  pretty  face  of 
the  girl  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  Leslie  that  Elinor 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         149 

Ilingsworth  was  in  great  distress,  and  taking  her 
place  beside  her  father,  she  whispered: 

"  Oh,  father,  you  should  see  her.  She's  in  great 
trouble,  and  yet  she  looks  so — so  pretty."  Genu- 
ine anguish  shone  from  Leslie's  eyes  as  she  now 
turned  from  her  father  to  Colonel  Morehead,  and 
asked : 

"Who's  going  to  take  care  of  her?  What's  to 
become  of  her  now?" 

Leech  had  returned  by  this  time  and  was  hold- 
ing before  Leslie  a  half-tone  photograph  of  Giles 
Ilingsworth. 

"  That's  the  man ! "  cried  Leslie,  seizing  the 
picture.  She  turned  it  over  and  glanced  involun- 
tarily at  the  inscription  on  the  back.  "Taken 
particularly  for  my  daughter  Elinor,"  it  said. 
"Affectionately  her  father,  G.  I.  Sept.  190 " 

Leslie's  eyes  reproached  Leech. 

;<You  make  this  girl  an  instrument  in  her 
father's  destruction,"  she  said  indignantly,  little 
understanding  what  part  she  might  play  later  in 
her  own  father's  affairs. 

Leech,  who  seemed  to  take  a  very  business-like 
pleasure  in  feasting  his  eyes  upon  Leslie's  face, 
merely  nodded,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  he 
said: 

"You  forget,  Miss  Wilkinson,  that  we  have 
our  duty  to  perform.  A  man  who  murders  is  not 
entitled  to  so  very  much  consideration,  after  all." 


150         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

He  looked  at  the  photograph  in  her  hand.  "  If 
you're  sure  that  this  is  the  man  you  know  as  Giles 
Ilingsworth,  you  might  tell  me  briefly  what  he 
said.  It  is  not  vital,"  he  went  on  hastily,  "that 
is,  we  can  make  a  case  without  it.  But  we  want — 
and  Mr.  Wilkinson  is  good  enough  to  offer " 

"  Mr.  Leech,"  broke  in  Wilkinson,  seeking  the 
Assistant  District  Attorney's  glance,  which  he  held 
to  the  end,  "let  me  be  understood.  This  man 
Ilingsworth  killed  a  man  in  my  employ — to  be 
exact,  my  private  secretary,  my  friend.  I  want  to 
put  myself  on  record  here  and  now:  Whenever  a 
man  tries  to  do  me  an  injury,  whenever  a  man 
tries  to  hound  me — hound  me,  understand,  as  this 
man  Ilingsworth  did," — he  paused  for  an  instant, 
— "his  gun  was  aimed  at  me,  don't  you  forget 
that — why,  I  camp  on  that  man's  trail  until  I  land 
him.  And  conversely,  if  a  man  does  me  a  favour," 
— again  there  was  a  pause  to  let  the  fact  sink 
home, — "  I  never  forget  it.  Now,  Leslie,"  he 
concluded,  "  you  may  proceed  with  the  facts,  and 
tell  us  about  the  man  who  tried  to  kill  your  father 
in  cold  blood." 

Leslie's  recital  consisted  of  the  threats  Ilings- 
worth had  made.  Wilkinson  supplemented  it  with 
his  statement  as  to  the  unwarranted  attack  on  him- 
self by  Ilingsworth  in  front  of  Wilkinson's  house 
on  the  Drive  on  that  eventful  evening  a  short 
while  before.  Leech  took  no  notes  of  these  state- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         151 

ments,  but  merely  tucked  away  the  details  to  be 
dictated  to  his  stenographer  later  in  the  privacy  of 
his  inner  room. 

"That's  all,  Mr.  Leech,"  said  Wilkinson, 
rising,  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  the  other  shook 
it  genially. 

"  By  the  way,  who's  going  to  try  the  Ilings- 
worth  case  for  the  People?"  inquired  Morehead, 
hoping  to  take  the  Assistant  District  Attorney  off 
his  guard. 

"Nobody  knows  yet,"  snapped  the  Assistant 
District  Attorney,  in  a  manner  to  remind  the  Colo- 
nel gently  but  forcefully  that  it  was  nobody's  busi- 
ness but  the  People's. 

At  the  outer  door,  Leslie  held  them  for  a 
moment. 

"  If  there  was  any  way  to,"  she  faltered,  "  I'd 
like  to  know  what's  going  to  happen  to — to  that 
girl  inside.  I " 

Wilkinson  winked  at  Morehead. 

"Why,  girlie,"  he  exclaimed,  "  Ilingsworth's 
stolen  millions  will  take  care  of  her!" 

Leslie  brightened  up. 

"To  be  sure,"  she  answered.  "I — I  never 
thought  of  that.  I'd  forgotten  all  about  the  fact 
that  he  ha'd  money  still." 

"  He  reeks  with  money,"  added  Morehead,  re- 
turning Wilkinson's  wink.  "And  now,  for  the 
machine." 


152         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Twenty  minutes  later  Wilkinson  stalked  into 
the  presence  of  his  wife  and  Beekman.  It  was 
late  afternoon,  and  Beekman  was  to  dine  with 
them  that  night.  Wilkinson  bowed  ostentatiously 
to  Mrs.  Wilkinson,  and  commented : 

"  Overpowered,  my  dear,  absolutely  overpow- 
ered by  your  attentions  to  me  while  I  was  in  the 
Tombs.  I  actually  felt  like  a  bachelor  again." 

"How  could  any  man  expect  a  lady  to  go 
there?"  she  asked,  glaring  at  Beekman,  and  evi- 
dently expecting  him  to  come  to  her  aid,  but  as 
no  comment  was  forthcoming  from  that  gentle- 
man, she  concluded  her  remark  by  saying:  "  Not 
for  the  best  man  alive  would  I  trail  down  into 
that  dirty,  dingy  place." 

Wilkinson  groaned  with  disgust. 

"  Nevertheless,  there  were  some  women,"  he 
reminded  her,  "  who  came  there,  clad  in  rags,  and 
stood,  stood,  stood  on  their  tired  feet  all  day  long, 
outside  the  cells  of  the  men  they  loved.  They  were 
wives,  mostly  wives,  too,  for  I  heard  what  they 
had  to  say.  .  .  ."  He,  too,  appealed  to  Beekman. 
"  It's  worth  while,  Beekman,"  he  wound  up,  a 
trifle  sadly,  "  to  be  loved  for  yourself  alone,  and 
not  for  your  money,  isn't  it?" 

The  mistress  of  the  house  lifted  up  her  voice 
in  raucous  mirth. 

"  I  don't  see,  Peter,"  she  returned,  "  that  you 
have  any  money  to  be  loved  for  now." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         153 

"  Hence,"  commented  her  lord  and  master, 
while  Beekman  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns  at  this 
free  and  easy  bickering,  "hence  you  didn't  come 
down  to  the  Tombs.  But,"  his  forefinger  shot  out 
and,  figuratively  speaking,  touched  her  on  a  vital 
spot,  "you  made  a  big  mistake!  If  you'd  been 
there  the  artists  of  the  daily  press  would  have 
had  you  shown  up  in  forty  different  poses  for 
Sunday.  I  had  the  devil's  own  time  in  keeping 
Leslie's  face  from  getting  in.  But  yours — I  could 
have  had  it  in  every  hour  of  the  day  without  its 
costing  me  one  penny." 

The  lady  leaned  forward  in  genuine  eagerness, 
and  asked: 

"Is  that  true,  Peter?  I  thought  they  had 
abandoned  me — left  me  on  the  shelf.  But  if  it's 
true,  I  promise  to  be  there  every  day  the  next 
time  you're  locked  up." 

Peter  V.  paled  perceptibly. 

"  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  next  time,"  he 
laughed.  "  Eliot  Beekman's  going  to  see  to  that." 

Meantime  in  the  Colonial  drawing-room,  Les- 
lie was  enjoying  a  quiet  tete-a-tete  with  Colonel 
Morehead. 

"  It  was  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world,  Colonel," 
she  was  telling  him,  "  your  picking  out  Eliot  Beek- 
man for — for  father.  And  I  believe  you're  right. 
Mr.  Beekman  is  so  honest,  so  earnest,  and  so  con- 
vincing. And  he  looks  you  in  the  eye  so." 


154         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Um,  how  does  he  look  you  in  the  eye?"  re- 
turned the  Colonel,  meeting  her  gaze. 

But  Leslie,  flushing,  had  already  fled. 

It  was  hours  later,  when  alone  with  Beekman, 
she  looked  into  his  eyes  squarely,  as  was  her  habit, 
and  asked  falteringly: 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr. — Mr.  Beekman " 

Beekman  stopped  her. 

"  Begin  again,"  he  commanded,  "  you  can  do 
better  than  that." 

"Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  ..."  she  started  in,  but 
again  Beekman  protested. 

"Now  look  here,  I'm  only  one  of  six  lawyers 
in  your  father's  case.  Every  last  man  of  'em  calls 
you  Leslie — even  Patrick  Durand,  and  I'm  going 
to  call  you  Leslie,  too.  It's  a  part  of  my  duties, 
as  your  father's  counsel  in  the  case.  Therefore, 
you  begin  again,  and  begin  it  right." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  in  which  Leslie 
averted  her  face. 

"Eliot,"  she  finally  whispered,  in  gentle  tones, 
her  eyes  coming  back  to  his,  "  I  think  it  is  per- 
fectly fine  of  you  to  help  father  in  this  way.  Don't 
you  know,"  she  went  on,  "  you  said  that  night  on 
the  way  home  from  Mrs.  Pallet-Searing's,  that  you 
wished  you  could  do  something  for  him,  help  him 
some  way.  And  now  you've  buckled  on  your 
armour  in  his  defence." 

"Hold  on  there!"  called  out  Beekman,  in 
alarm.  "  Wait  a  bit  I  Is  that  what  you  call  it — 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         155 

my  helping  him?  Why,  there  are  just  about  ten 
thousand  lawyers  in  the  Borough  of  Manhattan 
who'd  give  their  eyes  to  get  the  job.  And,  be- 
sides, don't  laud  me  yet.  Great  Heavens,  Leslie ! 
Don't  you  understand  that  I've  got  a  fat  retainer 
in  my  pocket  for  all  this?" 

The  girl  laughed  in  glee. 

"  So  much  the  better !  "  she  exclaimed.  Pres- 
ently her  brow  wrinkled  and  she  demanded: 
"Who  paid  it  to  you,  Eliot?" 

"  Colonel  Morehead,"  quickly  spoke  up  Beek- 
man. 

"I  wonder  where  he  got  the  money?"  she 
mused,  then  she  laughed  once  more.  "  Probably 
my  money,"  she  said.  "Wouldn't  it  be  great  if 
I  were  paying  you  for  this?" 

"  It  would,"  answered  Beekman  in  mock  so- 
lemnity, "  because,  getting  this  much  out  of  your 
coffers,  I  should  have  hopes  in  time  of  depleting 
your  funds  to  a  very  large  extent,  so  that  some  day 
in  the  future,  having  flim-flammed  you  out  of  a 
large  proportion  of  your  worldly  wealth,  I  should 
then  stand  on  that  footing  of  American  equality  I 
mentioned  to  you  the  other  night,  and  might,  in 
turn,  'with  all  these  wordly  goods  I  thee  en- 
dow'  " 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,"  she  said  seriously. 

Nor  was  it  given  to  them  to  know  what  the 
fates  had  in  store  for  them,  that  the  time  was  soon 
to  come  when  Beekman  should  be  on  that  equal 


156        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

footing,  to  which  he  referred,  and,  what  is  more, 
that  he  was  to  stand  as  the  one  man  in  the  state, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  his  name  on  every  lip. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  went  on,  "it's  fine  of  you 
to  fight.   .    .  ...     You're  going  to  fight,   aren't 

you?" 

He  looked  over  her  head  far  into  the  future. 
It  was  all  hazy  there,  but  in  his  ambitious  pur- 
poses Beekman  recognised  that  he  held  within  his 
grasp  the  one  big  opportunity  of  his  career. 

"  Fight,"  he  echoed,  "  to  the  last  ditch." 

"And  so  am  I,"  she  went  on  enthusiastically. 
"  We'll  all  fight,  and  we'll  win ;  we're  bound  to 
win." 

"We're  bound  to  win,"  he  repeated,  the  blood 
surging  through  his  veins.  "  And  when  we  win — 
what  then?"  He  looked  deep  into  her  eyes;  but 
she  cast  them  down  before  him. 

"  Let's  win  first,"  she  faltered. 

If  only  there  had  been  a  warning  hand,  a 
friendly  voice  to  tell  him  what  lay  before  him  in 
the  future !  For  could  he  have  heard  Wilkinson's 
words,  that  very  afternoon,  to  the  Assistant  Dis- 
trict Attorney:  "The  man  who  does  me  a  favour 
I  never  forget;  the  man  who  injures  me  I  never 
forgive," — he  might  have  thought  twice  before  re- 
plying: 

"  It's  a  go.  You're  quite  right.  We'll  win 
first." 


X 

"You  ought  to  have  been  there,  Patrick!  By 
jinks,  you  had  ...  ! "  exclaimed  Wilkinson 
some  months  later  as  he  watched  the  rings  of 
smoke  from  his  cigar  float  upwards  to  the  ceiling 
of  the  Millionaires'  Club.  "  I  fixed  him,  didn't  I, 
Colonel?" 

Colonel  Morehead  thought  a  moment  before 
replying : 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  did,  Peter.  You 
furnished  the  evidence  of  deliberation — that  es- 
sential element  in  a  murder  case — the  lying  in 
wait.  Yes,  your  admirable  efforts  in  that  direc- 
tion will  probably  land  Ilingsworth  in  the  chair." 

"Probably!  Oh,  thunder,"  put  in  Patrick 
Durand,  one  of  the  cleverest  criminal  lawyers  in 
the  city,  "  that  man  Ilingsworth  is  dead  already !  " 

Colonel  Morehead  placed  the  finger-tips  of  one 
hand  against  those  of  the  other  as  he  made  an- 
swer: 

"If  he'd  been  merely  one  of  a  crowd  of 
maddened  depositors,  acting  in  the  heat  of  passion, 
it  would  have  been  second  degree,  without  a  doubt. 
And  yet," — and  the  Colonel  darted  sharp  glances 
first  at  Durand  and  then  toward  his  client, — "  in 
my  opinion,  the  star  witness  of  the  prosecution 

157 


158        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

was  your  daughter  Leslie.     The  jury  believed 
every  word  that  she  said." 

And  indeed  such  had  been  the  case  at  Ilings- 
worth's  trial.  Assistant  District  Attorney  Leech 
had  made  no  mistake  in  the  order  of  summoning 
his  witnesses.  After  her  father,  bluff,  arrogant 
and  eager — and  over-willingness  is  a  bad  virtue 
in  a  witness — had  finished  his  testimony,  Leslie 
had  taken  the  stand  and  had  wholly  removed  the 
bad  impression  Wilkinson  had  made  on  the  jury 
through  his  evident  desire  that  Ilingsworth  should 
be  convicted.  Moreover,  Leech  had  trained  the 
girl,  as  he  did  all  his  witnesses,  to  answer  the 
essential  facts,  and  nothing  else.  And  to  make 
his  task  all  the  easier,  Ilingsworth's  lawyer,  a 
hanger-on  of  the  criminal  courts — for  Ilingsworth 
had  had  no  funds  to  employ  first-class  counselv 
and  a  prisoner  without  money  is  a  doomed  man  in 
New  York — had  wallowed  through  the  trial  with- 
out a  glimmering  of  common  sense.  From  the 
first,  as  might  have  been  expected,  he  had  played 
directly  into  the  hands  of  the  People.  But  his 
blundering  had  not  been  without  its  interesting 
side — interesting,  at  least,  to  a  few  of  his  hearers. 
For  despite  the  Assistant  District  Attorney's 
strenuous  objections,  the  Court  had  overruled  his 
contention  that  the  entire  conversation  between 
Giles  Ilingsworth  and  Leslie  that  memorable  af- 
ternoon was  irrelevant  and  immaterial,  and  in 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         159 

consequence  the  good-for-nothing  lawyer  had  led 
Leslie  on  to  tell  in  detail  all  of  Ilingsworth's  grave 
charges  against  her  father.  And  it  was  at  that 
point,  and  barely  before  the  girl  had  uttered  two 
hundred  words,  that  a  reporter  of  the  Morning 
Mail  had  succeeded  in  wriggling  his  way  through 
the  lawyers  inside  the  rail,  and  had  not  crept  back 
into  his  place  and  resumed  the  taking  of  copious 
notes  until  the  court  stenographer  to  whom  he  had 
whispered :  "  Say,  old  man,  I  want  all  this,  word 
for  word,  by  two  o'clock,  at  any  price,"  had  nodded 
his  willingness  to  accept  the  fifty-dollar  bill  that 
he  was  sure  the  Morning  Mail  must  vouchsafe 
him  for  this  hurry  job. 

And  so  it  happened  that  an  hour  later  the 
Morning  Mail  man  was  telling  Mr.  Ougheltree  of 
the  Twentieth  Century  Bank  and  head  of  the 
bankers  clique  that  owned  the  Mail,  that  he  had 
to  stand  by  this  man  Ilingsworth  from  start  to 
finish.  And  as  a  result  of  this  interview  the  few 
spectators  at  the  afternoon  session  of  the  court 
had  heard  the  celebrated  Worth  Higgins  inform 
the  Court  that  he  had  been  retained  to  conduct 
the  case  for  the  defence,  as  well  as  the  Court's 
complimentary  remarks  in  reply. 

But  Worth  Higgins  had  been  of  little  service 
to  the  defendant,  though  he  had  drawn  from  his 
witnesses,  especially  Ilingsworth,  all  that  they 
knew  or  suspected  about  Wilkinson's  management 


160         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

of  the  seventeen  bankrupt  trust  companies — a  feat 
which,  as  will  readily  be  imagined,  was  all  that 
the  Morning  Mail  required  of  him.  In  truth, 
Higgins  had  done  Ilingsworth  more  harm  than 
good.  The  defendant  had  deliberately  purchased 
a  gun;  had  lain  in  wait;  had  shot  a  man  down  in 
cold  blood.  Not  the  man  he  had  aimed  at,  it  is 
true,  but  the  principle  was  the  same. 

"  Will  the  defendant  deny  that  he  did  the  shoot- 
ing? "  had  been  Higgins'  query  to  Boggs. 

"  Of  course  he  will,"  had  been  his  fellow- 
counsel's  answer.  "  He's  as  innocent  as  a  new- 
born babe." 

And  with  that  Higgins  had  put  the  defendant 
on  the  stand  and  heard  him  deny  it — a  weak, 
wabbling  denial  it  was,  in  reality  merely  a  recital 
of  his  wrongs. 

**  That's  all,"  Higgins  said,  when  the  testimony 
was  over,  and  then  he  had  added  in  an  aside  to 
his  junior:  "His  goose  is  cooked." 

Nevertheless,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Morning 
Mail  man,  he  had  taken  all  the  exceptions  possible, 
remarking  to  that  gentleman's  intimation  that  the 
case  was  going  up  for  an  appeal :  "  A  good  thing 
it  is,  for  it's  a  gone  case  here." 

And  Higgins  had  been  quite  right.  For,  a  short 
time  after  this  the  jury  had  filed  back  and  pro- 
nounced the  one  word  of  doom. 

In  common  with  everyone  in  the  court-room, 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         161 

save  Ilingsworth  and  his  daughter,  Leslie  had  ex- 
pected just  such  an  ending.  All  though  the  trial 
she  had  longed  for  the  words  that  would  relieve 
her  from  the  thraldom  of  uncertainty  in  which 
she  was  held;  yet  when  the  foreman  had  pro- 
nounced the  verdict  it  had  shocked  her  inexpres- 
sibly, left  her  indescribably  sad.  For  some  mo- 
ments she  had  struggled  to  regain  her  composure, 
and  fearful  of  a  break-down,  she  had  fled,  but  not 
in  time  to  escape  seeing  Ilingsworth  slump  down 
into  his  seat  with  a  faint  moan.  At  the  door  the 
sound  of  many  voices  and  exclamations  of  pity 
had  reached  her  ears.  She  halted,  and  looking 
back  she  saw  that  the  commotion  was  the  result 
of  some  woman  who  had  fainted.  And  then  it 
was  that  she  saw,  too,  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
picture  of  Elinor  Ilingsworth,  friendless  and  help- 
less, looking  hopelessly  down  upon  her  father 
while  she  endeavoured  to  soothe  him  with  en- 
dearing words.  Impulsively  Leslie  had  started 
back,  a  vague  intention  of  putting  her  arms  around 
the  girl's  neck,  of  taking  possession  of  her,  as 
it  were,  and  carrying  her,  who  needed  care  so 
much,  to  her  own  home.  But  like  a  flash  the 
futility  of  such  a  course  had  dawned  upon  her. 
For  the  realisation  had  been  borne  in  upon  her 
that  it  was  her  own  testimony,  more  than  any- 
one else's,  that  had  been  the  means  of  convicting 
the  girl's  father;  and  that  for  her  to  offer  words 


162        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

of  sympathy  to  the  daughter  would  be  a  mockery 
if  not  an  insult.  It  was,  therefore,  with  a  sigh 
that  Leslie  had  again  retraced  her  steps,  forcing 
herself  to  be  content  with  giving  the  girl  a  glance 
of  infinite  pity. 

"Conceding  that  Leslie's  testimony  did  for 
him,"  Wilkinson  was  now  saying  to  his  cronies 
at  his  club,  gulping  down  his  Scotch,  "  conceding 
that,  but  who  set  her  on — made  her  testify?  It 
was  I  who  bit  into  that  fellow's  heel,  and  don't 
you  forget  that  I'm  proud  of  it." 

Morehead  stared  through  the  cloud  of  collect- 
ing smoke. 

"  I  wish,  Patrick,"  he  proceeded  to  say  to  Du- 
rand,  in  his  own  calm  way,  "  that  you  could  have 
been  there  for  just  one  reason:  I  am  anxious  to 
know  whether  my  view  of  the  effect  of  Peter's 
testimony  on  the  jury  is  correct." 

Patrick  Durand  waved  his  hand. 

"  You  ought  to  know,  Colonel." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  had  a  good  effect  on  'em, 
Morehead?"  queried  his  client. 

Morehead  rose  and  stretched  his  legs,  and  with- 
out glancing,  even,  at  Wilkinson,  he  said  bluntly: 

"  Durand,  I  watched  them  closely — each  one 
of  the  twelve.  And,  mark  my  words,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Leslie,  I  don't  believe  one  man  in  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         163 

twelve  would  have  believed  a  word  that  Peter 
said." 

Wilkinson  turned  red. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  Morehead?" 
he  roared.  "  Is  this  an  insult?  " 

Morehead  never  flinched. 

"  Sit  down,  Wilkinson,"  he  commanded  curtly. 
"  I'm  talking  to  Mr.  Durand.  What  do  you 
think,  Patrick?" 

Patrick  Durand  glanced  over  the  rims  of  his 
glasses  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Representative  men,  were  they,  Colonel?  "  he 
asked. 

"  A  good  mixture,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  I  never 
saw  a  better.  ..." 

Durand  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  It  looks  bad — mighty  bad,  Colonel,  for  us," 
he  observed  calmly. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  How  bad  for  us?  "  in- 
sisted Wilkinson,  his  face  still  red  with  the  impu- 
tation cast  upon  him. 

Durand  looked  at  him  long  and  searchingly, 
doubtful  whether  to  take  him  into  their  confidence 
or  not.  Presently  he  said : 

"  It's  just  this,  Brother  Wilkinson:  If  an  ordi- 
nary jury  isn't  going  to  believe  a  man  when  he  tells 
the  truth,  what  are  they  going  to  do  when  he 
deliberately  lies?  " 


164         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  But  hang  it,  man,"  exploded  Wilkinson,  "  I 
didn't  lie;  I  told  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  Wilkinson,  you  told  the  truth  in  this 
Ilingsworth  case,  but  it's  your  own  case  we're 
thinking  about.  There'll  be  a  jury  in  that,  too." 

"  You  fellows  make  me  tired,"  growled  Wil- 
kinson. "  My  case — if  it  ever  comes  to  trial " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  worry  about  that !  It  will  come 
to  trial,  all  right,"  put  in  Flomerfelt,  speaking  for 
the  first  time,  and  helping  himself  to  a  fresh  cigar. 

"  It  won't  if  my  overtures  to  District  Attorney 
Murgatroyd  are  accepted,"  retorted  Peter  V. 

The  two  eminent  counsel  lifted  up  their  eyes 
in  mild  surprise. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  bribe 
Murgatroyd?  "  came  in  chorus. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You've  got  enough  indictments  against  you 
already,  Peter,"  they  warned  him,  "  without  hav- 
ing Murgatroyd  charge  you  with  an  attempt  to 
bribe." 

"No,  indeed,  you  can't  bribe  Murgatroyd," 
spoke  up  Flomerfelt,  with  a  knowing  smile. 
"Though  I'll  tell  you  what,  Colonel,"  he  went 
on,  "  there  is  a  chap  who's  not  above  suspicion 
on  that  staff." 

Morehead  winked. 

"  The  hold-over  from  the  last  administration?  " 

".You  mean  Leech?"  gasped  Wilkinson. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         165 

Flomerfelt  nodded. 

"  It's  better  to  hear  you  say  the  name  than  to 
say  it  ourselves,  Peter,"  remarked  Morehead. 

"  Why,  then  the  case  needn't  come  to  trial ! " 
exclaimed  Peter  V.,  joyously.  "  We  can  get  at 
Leech." 

"Not  in  a  hundred  years!"  ejaculated  Flomer- 
felt. "  Murgatroyd  stands  behind  these  indict- 
ments in  your  case,  don't  you  forget  that.  And 
even  if  Leech  tries  them,  Murgatroyd  will  be  there 
to  see.  .  .  .  The  Assistant  District  Attorney 
won't  be  able  to  move  out  of  the  beaten  track. 
Your  case  will  come  to  trial,  never  fear." 

"Well,  then,  let  it  come,"  grunted  Wilkinson, 
a  little  ruffled  by  the  demeanour  of  Flomerfelt  and 
his  counsel.  "  But  by  that  time  this  man  Ilings- 
worth  will  be  dead;  we'll  shove  everything  on 
him." 

"  I  don't  believe  Ilingsworth  will  be  dead,"  re- 
marked Morehead.  "  Indeed  I  do  not." 

"  Well,  even  if  he  isn't,"  retorted  Wilkinson, 
huskily,  "  he's  wholly  discredited.  A  man  who'll 
murder  may  commit  other  crimes;  the  jury  will 
believe  anything  of  Ilingsworth  by  the  time 
we're  through  with  him." 

Morehead  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Durand  and  I  have  gone  over  this  whole 
thing;  have  looked  up  every  man  on  Flomerfelt's 
list;  they  won't  stick  to  us,  that's  all.  Wilkinson, 


166        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

your  crowd  are  down  on  you.  And  what's  more, 
the  Morning  Mail  now  stands  behind  Ilingsworth, 
and  they're  going  to  stick  by  him.  So  if  we  make 
this  attempt  to  unload  iniquity  on  Ilingsworth  and 
fail,  we'll  do  two  things  we  don't  want  to  do: 
One  is,  we'll  make  the  dangerous  admission 
that  there  has  been  iniquity;  and  the  other,  psy- 
chological problem  as  it  is,  is  quite  as  much  to  be 
feared " 

"  Fire  ahead,"  interrupted  Wilkinson. 

"I'm  banking  on  Beekman — banking  on  his 
personality  with  his  jury,  and  I  don't  want  the 
ghost  of  a  doubt  to  show  in  his  face.  That's  why 
I  sent  him  to  Europe.  Of  course  we  need  the  evi- 
dence he's  getting  over  there — it's  good  stuff. 
But  I  sent  him  now  in  order  that  he  shouldn't  even 
read,  save  in  a  casual  way,  this  story  of  Ilings- 
worth. A  true  story  is  a  mighty  bad  story,  Peter, 
So  we'll  cut  Ilingsworth  out  of  this  case.  If  the 
People  produce  him — and  I'm  satisfied  they  won't 
— why  we'll  try  to  get  him  on  the  cross-examina- 
tion. Duran'd  and  I  have  talked  it  all  over,  and 
our  game  is  going  to  be  a  game  of  denial  from 
start  to  finish.  I  doubt  whether  the  People  make 
out  the  case  against  you.  If  they  don't  we've  got 
'em  nailed.  And  if  the  judge  sends  the  case  to 
the  jury,  we'll  deny  everything  the  People  put  up 
against  us.  But  it's  a  lucky  thing  for  you  that 
they'll  believe  your  daughter  Leslie." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         167 

"  It's  a  pity,  Wilkinson,"  said  Flomerfelt,  with 
something  like  a  sneer,  "  that  while  you  were 
about  it,  you  didn't  swing  this  thing  in  a  more 
careful  way.  Of  course  it's  too  late  now.  You 
bit  off  more  than  you  could  chew  that  time !  You 
thought  you  could  get  away  with  the  goods — got 
careless!  I've  seen  many  a  safecracker  do  the 
same  thing." 

Wilkinson  flushed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  compare  me  with "  he  be- 
gan; but  Flomerfelt  left  the  question  unanswered. 

"This  is  no  Sunday-school  picnic,  and  you  may 
as  well  understand  it  now,  Peter,"  said  More- 
head.  "  We've  got  to  work  for  our  living  in  this 
case,  and  you've  got  to  do  your  share,  have  got 
to  understand  that  it's  a  running  fight  from  now 
on  to  the  end." 

"  I'll  do  my  part,"  Wilkinson  assured  them, 
burying  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  But  I  want 
you  to  find  out  who  the  judge  is  going  to  be,  and 
when  the  time  comes,  give  me  the  names  of  the 
jury,  and  I'll  get  at  them  all  right." 

Colonel  Morehead  rose  to  his  lanky  height  and 
clutched  the  shoulder  of  his  opulent  client. 

"  Wilkinson,"  he  cried,  shaking  a  lean  hand  in 
the  other's  face,  "  you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about!  And  you  might  as  well  make 
up  your  mind  now  that  you  can't  touch  Murga- 
troyd,  and  you  can't  touch  the  Court.  And  Mur- 


168        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

gatroyd  is  there  to  see  that  you  don't  touch  the 
jury.     We — Durand  and  I — have  got  charge  of 
this  thing.    You  keep  your  hands  off.    ..." 
"  But  you're  going  to  pull  me  out,  aren't  you? " 
".     .     .     In  our  own  way.     So   far   I've  al- 
ways had  my  own  way  in  my  cases,"  declared 
Patrick  Durand,  "  and  if  I  can't  have  it  in  this 
one,  why,  I'll  retire,  that's  all." 

"  Yes,  you  must  do  as  they  say,  Peter  V."  ad- 
vised Flomerfelt,  suavely,  and  then  lowering  his 
voice  so  that  the  others  should  not  hear,  he  added : 
"If  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  should  be- 
come necessary  to  lay  a  bribe  in  order  to  get  you 
clear,  I'll  attend  to  that  myself." 


XI 

"  GUILTY,  your  Honour." 

The  voice  was  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  fore- 
man of  a  jury.  His  hand  shook  as  it  held  the 
slip  of  paper  from  which  he  read  the  portentous 
words. 

The  Court  leaned  over  toward  him. 

"  I  didn't  catch  that,"  said  the  Court. 

Once  more  the  foreman  drew  himself  together, 
and  moistened  his  lips  before  he  repeated  in  shrill 
tones : 

"Guilty,  your  Honour — guilty  as  charged  in 
the  indictment." 

For  a  brief  moment  there  was  a  silence;  then 
the  spacious  court-room  broke  into  subdued  up- 
roar. 

"  Jumpin'  Jerusalem,  I  didn't  think  they'd  have 
the  nerve  to  do  it!  "  came  from  a  voice  some- 
where in  the  crowd;  and  judging  from  the  expres- 
sion on  the  faces  of  the  people,  this  remark  was 
fairly  indicative  of  their  opinion. 

The  Court  rapped  for  silence,  and  nodded  to 
Beekman,  the  active  counsel  for  the  defence. 

"  If  the  Court  please,"  began  Beekman,  his  face 
pale,  and  his  voice  trembling  with  surprise  and 

169 


i;o         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

disappointment,  "we  move  to  set  aside  the  ver- 
dict and  for  a  new  trial  on  the  ground  that  the 
verdict  is  against  the  weight  of  evidence,  against 
the  charge  of  the  Court,  contrary  to  .  .  . " 

A  heavy  hand  was  laid  upon  Beekman's  arm. 

"Hold  on  there!  I  want  that  jury  polled!" 
The  speaker  of  these  words  was  Peter  V.  Wilkin- 
son; for  this  trial  was  his  trial;  and  this  verdict 
was  the  verdict  in  his  case.  "  Morehead,  get  'em 
to  poll  that  jury!"  Again  he  spoke  as  one  ac- 
customed to  command,  and  not  as  a  prisoner  be- 
fore the  bar. 

"  Poll  the  jury,"  directed  the  Court. 

The  clerk  started  to  obey. 

"Now,  Morehead,"  went  on  Wilkinson  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  "  I  want  you  to  place  in  my  hands 
• — my  hands,  you  understand — the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  every  mother's  son  upon  that  jury.  I 
won't  forget  'em,  let  me  tell  you  that." 

"  John  T.  Wyatt,"  droned  the  clerk. 

And  Wyatt,  juror,  stiffened  for  an  instant,  hesi- 
tated, and  then  taking  a  big  grip  on  himself, 
answered  as  his  foreman  had:  "Guilty."  Every 
man  in  the  box  made  the  same  answer;  but  as 
every  man  voiced  his  verdict,  he  met  the  sullen, 
defiant,  vengeful  gaze  of  a  man  who  never  forgot, 
who  never  forgave,  and  each  man  felt  that  in- 
stant as  if,  somehow,  he  were  in  the  tightening 
grasp  of  the  big  millionaire  at  the  counsel  table. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         171 

"  Now  make  your  motions,  Beekman,"  whis- 
pered Morehead. 

And  Beekman  made  a  motion  to  set  aside  the 
verdict;  made  a  motion  in  arrest  of  judgment; 
made  a  motion  for  a  new  trial. 

Wilkinson  watched  the  face  of  the  Court  as 
he  had  watched  the  faces  of  the  jurymen. 

"  This  is  Gilchrist's  chance  to  square  himself, 
Morehead,"  he  announced  huskily.  "  He's  got  to 
give  us  a  new  trial,  or  we'll  know  the  reason  why." 

But  Judge  Gilchrist  merely  swept  the  court- 
room with  a  weary  glance. 

"  Motion  denied,"  he  said  briefly,  and  with  as 
much  concern  as  if  he  brushed  away  a  fly.  He 
now  turned  to  the  jury.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  went 
on  gratefully,  "  you  are  discharged  for  the  balance 
of  the  week — after  this  long,  protracted  trial — 
with  the  thanks  of  the  Court,  for  the  fairness, 
justice  and  impartiality  of  your  verdict.  Good- 
day,  gentlemen." 

"  Wha — what!"  gasped  Wilkinson  in  a  voice 
that  could  be  heard  all  over  the  court-room. 
"Does  he  mean  to  say  that  this  verdict  is  just — 
does  he,  Morehead?" 

Colonel  Morehead  frowned  with  vexation. 

"  Keep  quiet,  Wilkinson,"  was  all  lie  said. 

The  Court  waited  until  the  jury  had  filed  out, 
watching  them  as  they  went.  Then  his  glance 
returned  to  the  coterie  of  counsel  at  the  table. 


i72        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Counsellor,"  he  remarked  to  Beekman,  "  what 
day  will  be  most  convenient  to  you  for  sentence? 
And  you,  Mr.  Leech?" 

Up  to  this  time  Leslie,  who  had  been  sitting  at 
the  counsel  table  with  her  father,  had  listened  in 
a  sort  of  daze  to  the  proceedings  of  the  court. 
She  had  heard  all  the  testimony,  understanding  it 
as  best  she  could,  and  had  gathered  from  her 
father's  manner  and  that  of  his  counsel,  particu- 
larly Beekman's,  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  mere 
matter  of  form,  from  which  her  father  would 
come  out  unscathed  and  unscarred.  The  verdict 
had  simply  added  to  this  vagueness;  but  when  the 
Court  had  pronounced  the  significant  and  ugly 
word  '  sentence,'  it  brought  her  up,  as  it  were,  all 
standing;  and  half-rising  from  her  seat  she  held 
out  her  hand  in  an  imploring  gesture. 

"Sentence?"  she  cried  out  in  her  excitement. 
"  No,  he  can't  mean  that.  ..." 

There  was  a  titter  from  the  women  on  the 
benches ;  it  brought  Leslie  to  her  senses,  and  flush- 
ing and  confused  she  sank  back  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  Leslie,  brace  up !  "  said  Beekman,  leaning  over 
her,  his  voice  showing  his  deep  emotion.  "  It 
will  come  out  all  right.  We'll  win  out  on  ap- 
peal." 

Flomerfelt  stepped  to  the  fore  and  plucked 
Beekman  by  the  sleeve. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         173 

"  Let  me  have  a  word  with  you,"  he  requested, 
whispering  something  in  his  ear. 

Beekman  at  once  addressed  the  Court. 

"  If  your  Honour  please,"  he  began,  "may  we 
have  a  brief  consultation  among  counsel  before  we 
ask  your  Honour  to  set  a  day?  " 

"  Certainly,"  agreed  the  Court,  "  you  may  step 
into  the  ante-room." 

Six  counsel  and  Flomerfelt  and  Wilkinson — 
eight  in  all — filed  into  the  ante-room. 

"Shut  that  door,  Eliot,"  said  Morehead. 
"Now,  Flomerfelt,  what's  your  idea?" 

Out  in  the  court-room  J.  Newton  Leech,  who 
had  prosecuted  for  the  People,  left  the  side  of 
Murgatroyd  and  went  over  to  Leslie  to  offer  his 
sympathy. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,  this  has  been  pretty  hard  on 
you." 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  the  girl  an- 
swered, turning  her  pale,  tired  face  to  his. 

"  I  wouldn't  worry,"  he  went  on,  with  some- 
thing more  than  mere  professional  courtesy  in  his 
eyes. 

And  indeed  Leech  spoke  truly  when  he  said  that 
the  trial  had  been  most  distressing  to  Leslie.  It 
had  been  doubly  so,  perhaps,  because  of  the  lack 
of  the  usual  dramatic  features.  Forgery,  perjury, 
larceny,  ominous  charges  to  be  sure,  had  figured 


174        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

in  the  case,  but  their  proof  consisted  in  large  ac- 
count books,  private  memoranda,  original  reports 
from  the  State  banking  offices,  notes,  stock  trans- 
fers, in  fact,  everything  to  weary  and  little  to 
excite. 

District  Attorney  Murgatroyd,  like  the  accusing 
ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  had  stalked  silent, 
brooding,  imperturbable,  behind  his  assistant, 
Leech,  dictating  nothing  openly,  but  seeing,  know- 
ing that  no  stone  was  left  unturned.  For  the  first 
two  days  of  the  trial  the  People  apparently  had 
made  but  little  inroads  upon  the  integrity  of  Peter 
V.  Wilkinson;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  some 
new  and  powerful  influence  had  made  itself  felt: 
shrewd  accountants  entered  the  court-room  and 
sat  at  the  Assistant's  District  Attorney's  elbow;  a 
financier  or  two  kept  at  Murgatroyd's  side;  abso- 
lutely unassailable  witnesses  took  the  stand. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Morehead  had 
nudged  Durand  and  whispered: 

"The  Morning  Mail  and  Ougheltree  of  the 
National  Banks  are  at  work.  Here's  where  our 
trouble  begins." 

But  although  these  two  practitioners  well  knew, 
even  at  that  early  stage  of  the  game,  that  the 
chances  weighed  heavily  against  them,  not  once 
did  they  flinch,  not  once  did  they  permit  the  set 
expression  of  confidence  to  leave  their  faces.  On 
the  contrary,  they  turned  to  their  leader  and  said : 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         175 

"  Beekman,  the  jury  isn't  even  nibbling  at  this 
stuff.  We've  got  a  walk-over." 

But  Beekman  could  not  bring  himself  to  their 
point  of  view.  With  growing  fear  he  listened 
to  the  evidence  of  the  People  as  it  piled  up  against 
his  client.  Nevertheless,  Beekman  had — just  the 
thing  that  Morehead  had  said  he  had — an  un- 
altering  faith  in  Wilkinson.  He  was  partisan 
to  the  last  degree.  And  so  quite  naturally  his  in- 
tellect rejected  the  proofs  of  the  People.  Not  that 
he  did  not  appreciate  their  weight,  but  rather  that 
he  didn't  believe  their  truth. 

And  what  a  fight  he  had  put  up  for  his  client! 
To  this  day  Beekman's  summing  up  is  remem- 
bered. 

"  We  didn't  make  any  mistake  in  getting  him," 
Morehead  had  told  Durand  after  the  address  to 
the  jury. 

Even  Murgatroyd  had  been  moved  to  admira- 
tion by  his  closing  arguments,  turning  black  into 
white,  as  he  did,  because  it  looked  white  to  him, 
and  the  District  Attorney  had  said  to  his  Assist- 
ant: 

"Leech,  you  couldn't  do  that  in  a  thousand 
years — not  the  way  he  does  it.  And  if  it  were 
not  for  public  opinion,  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
Beekman  would  get  an  acquittal  from  this  jury. 
As  it  is  ..." 

And  not  for  one  moment  had  Murgatroyd  felt 


176        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

that  the  case  was  safe  until  the  foreman's  tremu- 
lous tones  had  quavered  forth  upon  the  heavy  air 
of  Sessions. 

During  the  first  few  minutes  of  the  time  that 
was  passed  in  the  ante-room  behind  closed  doors, 
Beekman's  face  wore  an  air  of  profound  dejection. 
Instead  of  joining,  as  was  to  be  expected,  in  an 
animated  discussion  that  the  others  were  having, 
he  had  taken  a  seat  by  himself,  and  was  reproach- 
ing himself  with  dereliction  of  duty.  Imagine, 
then,  his  astonishment  when  presently  the  little 
coterie  gathered  about  him  and  began  to  laud  him 
for  his  good  work. 

"  You're  a  wonder,  youngster !  "  they  told  him. 
"And  you  may  consider  yourself  engaged  again 
right  now,  if  we  get  a  new  trial." 

"  But  they  beat  me !  I  failed !  "  replied  Beek- 
man,  a  look  of  bewilderment  on  his  face.  For 
he  had  expected  reproaches,  and  here  was  gen- 
uine applause  as  for  a  winner  instead  of  for  a 
loser. 

"  Thought  you  were  going  to  get  me  out  of 
this?  "  growled  Wilkinson,  staring  about  him;  for 
he  knew  that  these  men  in  some  way  were  re- 
sponsible for  his  losing  his  case. 

u  We  are,"  returned  Durand,  grimly;  but  his 
eyes  flashed  a  wireless  message  to  the  eyes  of 
Colonel  Morehead.  And  this  wireless  message 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         177 

ran  about  like  this:  "We  are  going  to  get  him 
out  of  this  .  .  .  but  how?" 

Colonel  Morehead's  glance  travelled  quickly 
around  the  room  in  a  comprehensive  way;  then 
settled  upon  Wilkinson,  and  he  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  think  Peter  V.  had  better  be 
sentenced  now." 

"Now!  Thunder  and  guns,  not  now!  Give 
me  another  chance  to  get  at  the  Court,  or  at  Mur- 
gatroyd.  I  need  time — put  it  off  as  long  as  pos- 
sible," Wilkinson  said,  the  tremour  in  his  voice 
only  half  concealed. 

"  Time  is  dangerous,"  declared  Morehead,  with 
a  shake  of  the  head.  "  We  don't  want  public 
opinion  nor  the  Morning  Mail  to  get  to  work. 
The  public — except  your  own  depositors — didn't 
believe  that  you  were  going  to  be  convicted;  they 
believed  you  to  be  only  technically  guilty.  But 
give  the  populace  two  days  to  consider  the  fact 
that  you've  been  convicted — convicted  of  forgery 
— I  don't  say  you're  guilty,  Wilkinson — and  let 
the  Morning  Mail  hammer  that  in  for  a  week, 
the  Judge  is  bound  to  feel  the  force  of  this  public 
opinion.  It's  the  one  thing  from  which  no  public 
officer  can  escape." 

"Let  Gilchrist  sentence  now,  and  you'll  get 
off  with  a  fine,"  interposed  Flomerfelt;  "that  was 
my  suggestion." 

"That's   the   whole   idea,"    said   Patrick   Du- 


178        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

rand.     "The  less  delay  there  is,  the  lighter  it 
will  be." 

Meanwhile  Assistant  District  Attorney  Leech 
had  been  moderately  successful  in  his.  attempt  to 
soothe  Leslie.  His  manner  and  his  words,  "  I 
wouldn't  worry,"  had  seemed  a  guarantee  to  her 
that  her  troubles  were  about  to  vanish.  She  be- 
gan to  reason  that  nothing  could  happen  to  her 
father.  Nothing  ever  did  happen  to  respectable 
men  like  him — big  men,  rich  men.  And  so  she 
watched  with  increasing  confidence  the  eight  men 
file  back  into  the  court-room. 

"  If  the  Court  please,"  Beekman  was  saying 
gravely,  at  her  side,  "  instead  of  fixing  a  future 
day  for  sentence,  we  suggest  that  the  Court  pro- 
nounce its  sentence  now." 

The  suggestion  fell  like  a  bomb-shell  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowd.  Even  District  Attorney  Mur- 
gatroyd  rose  to  his  feet  in  surprise. 

"  I  see  no  reason,"  he  began,  and  then  remem- 
bering that  he  was  not  trying  the  case,  he  nodded 
to  his  assistant;  Leech  took  the  cue  and  pressed 
to  the  fore. 

"This  is  an  important  case,  your  Honour,"  he 
contended,  "  and  one  that  demands  deliberation. 
It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  preferable  to  defer 
sentence  until — say,  Thursday  of  next  week." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         179 

The  Court  quickly  waved  Leech  back  to  his 
seat  and  addressed  himself  to  the  prisoner. 

"  What  does  the  defendant  say?  Are  you  ready 
for  sentence  now?" 

"  I  am,"  said  Wilkinson,  and  rising  at  More- 
head's  nudge  he  stood  glaring  at  the  Court.  Beek- 
man  was  at  his  side,  and  extended  his  hand,  say- 
ing: 

"  Before  sentence  is  pronounced,  if  your  Hon- 
our please,  I  should  like  to  say  a  word  or  two  on 
behalf  of  the  defendant." 

The  Court  likewise  waved  him  back. 

"  I  heard  all  you  told  the  jury,"  remarked 
Judge  Gilchrist,  somewhat  sharply.  "  You  ex- 
hausted the  subject,  there's  nothing  left  to  say.  I 
have  the  floor." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  the  Court 
slowly  took  off  his  glasses,  wiped  them  with  his 
handkerchief  and  put  them  on  again. 

"This  is  an  unusual  case,"  he  began,  looking 
sternly  at  the  defendant. 

Back  on  the  benches  the  crowd  leaned  forward 
eagerly. 

"What  will  he  give  him?"  asked  someone. 

On  the  rear  seat,  Burns  of  the  Ideal  Dairy,  who 
never  missed  a  big  trial,  turned  to  his  friend 
Porteous,  the  Park  Row  hardware  man,  and  re- 
marked : 


i8o        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I'll  bet  you  another  fifty,  Billy,  that  he  fines 
him  a  cold  million  dollars — that  or  more." 

The  hardware  man  only  laughe'd. 

"  Done,"  he  answered.  "  Judge  Gilchrist 
wouldn't  dare  to  fine  him  over  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars— and " 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Burns.     "  He's  speaking 


now." 


".  .  .  confined  for  ten  years  in  State's  Prison 
at  hard  labour,"  concluded  the  Court. 

The  people  looked  at  one  another  aghast;  but 
Murgatroyd  smiled  a  smile  of  complete  satisfac- 
tion. As  for  Leslie,  she  turned  a  startled,  half- 
reproachful  glance  at  the  Assistant  District  At- 
torney, and  then  her  face  went  white  and  her  head 
sank  slowly  down  upon  her  arm  that  lay  upon  the 
table.  Unconsciously  Beekman  rested  his  hand 
lightly  upon  her  shoulder,  and  although  the  court- 
room seemed  whirling  about  his  head,  he  presently 
found  himself  counting  the  heart  throbs  that  shook 
ner  frame.  At  the  table  Wilkinson's  counsel  ex- 
changed glances,  only  Morehead  and  Durand  ap- 
parently retaining  their  self-possession,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  gather  their  papers  together,  and  scoop 
them  into  capacious  leather  bags,  shutting  the  bags 
loudly  with  a  snap. 

Wilkinson's  face  was  scarlet,  his  eyes  flashing 
fire.  From  the  instant  of  the  rendition  of  the 
jury's  verdict  he  had  been  a  spluttering  volcano  of 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         181 

righteous  indignation;  but  now,  as  he  glared  at 
the  Court,  he  was  searching  in  his  mind  for  some 
torture,  some  vengeance  fitting  for  a  judge  who 
dared.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Gilchrist,"  he  shouted 
so  that  all  might  hear,  and  advancing  toward  him, 
"  that  you've  got  the  nerve  to " 

The  Court  rapped  for  order. 

"  Clear  the  court-room !  "  he  ordered;  and  turn- 
ing to  Beekman  he  added :  "  Counsellor,  your 
client  is  beside  himself.  Take  charge  of  him,  or 
I'll  have  somebody  do  it  for  you." 

Morehead  and  Flomerfelt  pulled  Wilkinson 
down  into  his  seat  and  held  him  there  while  a 
court  officer  stood  over  him  threateningly.  For  a 
brief  instant,  only,  Gilchrist  let  his  cold,  judicial 
gaze  meet  the  hot  belligerence  of  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson; then  he  rose,  gathered  his  robes  about 
him,  and  passed  on  to  his  private  chambers. 

Immediately  four  New  York  newspaper  men 
boldly  took  possession  of  the  bench  and  got  three 
flashlights  of  Wilkinson  struggling  in  the  grasp 
of  his  attorneys.  It  took  less  than  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  clear  the  court-room,  but  within  that 
time  New  York  was  reading  the  head-lines :  "  Ten 
years  at  hard  labour  in  State's  Prison  for  Peter 
V.  Wilkinson,  the  multi-millionaire."  As  a  piece 
of  news  it  was  unquestionably  quite  worth  while; 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  London 


182         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

and  Paris  had  it;  that  night  Constantinople  had 
it;  the  world  had  it  and  gloated  over  it. 

"  What  are  they  going  to  do  to  you,  father?  " 
cried  Leslie,  when  two  uniformed  officers  laid 
hands  upon  Wilkinson. 

"  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know,"  he  answered 
in  alarm. 

"Take  him  to  the  Tombs,  of  course,"  spoke  up 
one  of  the  officers.  "What  else  is  there  to 
do?" 

"  No,  I  won't  go  back  there !  I  refuse  .  .  ." 
cried  Wilkinson,  struggling. 

Morehead  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  the  of- 
ficer's arm. 

"Wait  a  minute,  officer,"  he  said.  "We'll  file 
a  notice  of  appeal  inside  of  ten  minutes.  We're 
having  it  prepared  now.  We'll  give  bail — renew 
the  bond.  ..." 

Murgatroyd  stepped  forward  and  said,  clipping 
his  words  off  as  he  spoke: 

"  I  shall  oppose  this  man's  release  on  bail  pend- 
ing an  appeal,  unless  his  present  bail  is  increased 
to  double  the  amount." 

"  A  million  dollars !  What  are  you  talking 
about !  "  exclaimed  Morehead. 

"  I'm  talking  about  the  new  rule,"  returned 
the  District  Attorney;  "  and  you  know  just  as  much 
about  it  as  I  do."  And  then  smiling  significantly 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT      '183 

he  added :  "  I  think  Judge  Gilchrist  will  do 
pretty  much  as  I  say.  Maybe  he'll  ask  for  more 
because  of  your  client's  outburst  when  sentenced. 
If  you  want  to  see  the  Judge,  come  along  with 
me." 

"And  in  the  meantime,  Chief,  shall  we  lock 
him  up?"  queried  an  officer. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  put  in  Leech,  courteously  glanc- 
ing at  Leslie.  "  Suppose  Mr.  Wilkinson  stays  in 
my  room  until" — he  looked  at  the  Colonel 
now — "  you  can  give  bail  this  afternoon,*  can't 
you?" 

"  Not  if  it's  a  million  dollars.  Murgatroyd, 
this  man  has  got  to  rely  upon  his  daughter's 
money,"  he  pleaded.  "  We  couldn't  raise  a  mil- 
lion dollars  in  a  month." 

"Yes  we  can,"  snapped  Wilkinson,  the  cold 
sweat  standing  out  on  his  forehead.  "We  can 
raise  twice  that  in  an  hour." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence  in  which  More- 
head  tried  to  look  unconcerned,  and  Murgatroyd 
winked  at  Leech. 

"  I  thought  he  had  it  somewhere,"  whispered 
the  District  Attorney  to  his  assistant. 

With  this  proof  before  him  that  he  was  standing 
in  the  presence  of  a  man  far  from  bankrupt, 
Leech  became  doubly  attentive. 

"  I  think  I  can-  accommodate  Mr.  Wilkinson  in 
my  private  office  until  five  o'clock,"  he  suggested 


184        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

smoothly.  "Two  officers  can  remain  on  guard 
outside,  Chief.  Is  that  all  right?" 

Murgatroyd  nodded  a  tentative  assent  before 
saying : 

"  Come,  Colonel,  and  we'll  see  the  Judge.    .    . " 

And  an  hour  and  a  half  later  the  bail  had  been 
fixed  and  matters  arranged  by  Morehead  and  his 
colleagues  with  the  surety  company.  But  when  the 
Colonel  was  back  again  in  Leech's  private  office, 
he  whispered  to  Wilkinson : 

"Where's  your  nerve,  you  confounded  idiot! 
Now  you've  given  the  whole  thing  away!  If 
you'd  gone  back  to  the  Tombs  for  a  few  days 
longer.  ..." 

Wilkinson  gave  him  a  look  of  withering  scorn, 
and  measuring  his  words  carefully,  declared: 

"  I'll  never  be  locked  up,  Morehead,  again — 
anywhere.  I  told  you  once,  and  I  tell  you  now 
for  all  time,  that  they'll  never  get  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson again  behind  the  bars." 

Colonel  Morehead  made  no  comment,  but  fa- 
voured him  with  an  enigmatical  smile.  After  a 
moment  or  two,  he  went  on  to  explain  that  if  Wil- 
kinson had  kept  quiet  they  could  have  hunted  up 
some  of  his  friends  and  had  the  thing  fixed  up  in 
forty-eight  hours;  that  now,  after  what  had  hap- 
pened, everybody,  and  especially  Ougheltree  and 
the  Morning  Mail,  would  know  that  he  had  this 
money  tucked  away  somewhere;  and  that  before 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         185 

long  they'd  find  out  where  the  rest  of  it  was,  con- 
cluding with :  "  Somebody'll  get  it,  Wilkinson — 
they'll  get  at  it." 

Wilkinson  resented,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, this  interference  with  what  he  considered  his 
business,  and  made  no  answer.  But  turning  to 
Leslie,  he  said  irritably: 

"  Leslie,  just  put  your  name  on  the  back  of  these 
things,  will  you.  The  surety  company  is  waiting 
for  them." 

Leslie's  face  showed  a  peculiar  change;  and  she 
turned  the  certificates  over  to  read  them  before 
attaching  her  signature. 

"  Half  a  million  more !  "  she  gasped.  "  Why,  I 
don't  own  that  much,  father.  They  can't  be  mine 
to  sign  away,  can  they?" 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,"  ordered  her  father,  gruffly, 
taking  them  out  of  her  hand  and  turning  them  face 
down.  "  Sign  your  name  on  the  back  of  every  one 
of  them."  And  when  she  had  done  so,  he  said 
to  a  waiting  messenger:  "There,  now,  Surety 
Company,  fork  over  that  new  bond."  And  mo- 
tioning to  Morehead :  "  Call  Leech — there's  his 
bail." 


XII 

PETER  V.  WILKINSON  was  taken  to  his  home  in 
his  big  Mastodon  car.  With  him,  besides  the 
chauffeur,  were  his  daughter  Leslie  and  Colonel 
Morehead.  The  news  of  the  verdict,  the  sen- 
tence, and  the  release  on  bail  had  travelled  even 
faster  than  the  sixty-horse-power  machine  whose 
passengers  had  to  fight  their  way  through  an  im- 
pacted mass  of  humanity  which  filled  the  sidewalk 
and  the  street  in  front  of  Wilkinson's  big  place  on 
the  Drive.  But  then  it  was  not  every  day  that 
people  had  the  chance  to  look  upon  an  ex-multi- 
millionaire who  had  been  sentenced  to  ten  years 
at  hard  labour  and  had  given  a  million-dollar  bail ! 

With  difficulty  they  reached  the  door,  and  a 
moment  later  it  closed  upon  them. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Wilkinson?"  asked  the  multi- 
millionaire of  the  first  footman  he  came  across. 
And  in  an  aside  to  Morehead :  "  I  suppose  the 
missus  will  have  a  few  remarks  to  make." 

He  was  informed  that  Mrs.  Wilkinson  was  in 
her  room  and  feeling  poorly, — "  Very,  very  poor- 
ly," the  servant  had  been  told  to  say, — a  condition 
of  late  chronic  with  the  lady.  And  she  had  devel- 
oped another  alarming  condition:  her  increasing 
avoirdupois,  the  disappearance  of  the  last  rem- 

186 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         187 

nants  of  her  charms,  the  palpable  bankruptcy  of 
her  husband,  and  her  envy  of  her  step-daughter 
Leslie — the  only  member  of  the  household  who 
still  had  grace  of  mind  and  face  and  figure,  to 
say  nothing  of  wealth — all  these  had  developed  in 
the  lady  a  latent  ferocity,  a  tigerish  temper  which 
seemed  to  hold  unlimited  force  behind  it.  All 
over  the  great  house  her  shrill  virago's  voice 
could  be  heard  terrifying  the  servants;  in  short, 
her  sudden  rise  to  power  was,  perhaps,  best  de- 
scribed by  another  member  of  the  household. 
"The  missus  rules  the  roost  now,"  was  the  way 
her  husband  put  it,  and  he  knew  whereof  he  spoke. 
Indeed,  for  that  matter,  Wilkinson,  himself  hith- 
erto fearing  no  one,  and  priding  himself  in  the 
fact,  actually  trembled  now  during  the  few  mo- 
ments that  he  was  compelled  to  be  in  the  lady's 
presence. 

"  Colonel,  you've  got  to  come  with  me,"  begun 
Wilkinson. 

"  Not  I,"  was  the  brief  refusal. 

"You've  got  to  come  if  I  have  to  pay  you  to 
'do  it,"  insisted  the  husband.  "I  won't  go  up 
alone." 

And  Colonel  Morehead  would  probably  have 
used  an  even  more  forcible  expression  of  refusal 
to  do  the  husband's  bidding  had  he  known  that  at 
that  very  moment  his  right-hand  man  was  clos- 
eted upstairs  with  his  wife,  and  was  telling  her, — > 


188        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

with  one  of  his  inscrutable  smiles, — a  smile  that 
was  intended  to  convey  that  it  rested  wholly  with 
him  whether  Wilkinson  would  get  off  or  not, — 
that  Wilkinson  was  convicted,  because  the  men 
who  took  the  witness  stand  happened  to  tell  the 
truth  and  had  ended  -emphatically  with:  "The 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 

But  it  happened  that  when  they  entered  on 
tiptoe  the  lady's  boudoir — Morehead  having  been 
finally  persuaded,  much  against  his  will — the  lady 
did  not  deign  to  acknowledge  Morehead's  pres- 
ence, but  sobbed  out  to  her  husband: 

"  You  did  not  stop  to  consider  me !  Why  did 
you  let  them  do  this  thing  to  you  ?  It  all  falls  on 
me.  The  intolerable  disgrace,  shame,  humilia- 
tion! You,  a  felon,  a  convict,  a  common  thief,  a 
forger!"  One  after  another  she  hurled  these 
epithets  at  him,  while  Flomerfelt  discreetly  with- 
drew. 

Wilkinson  looked  at  Morehead  for  sympathy; 
then  he  answered  with  illy  assumed  contrition : 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"  I  can't  face  anybody — not  my  dearest  friends," 
went  on  the  lady.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go 
anywhere  again — never." 

Wilkinson  grinned  feebly  at  his  lawyer. 

"They  say  I  won't,  either,  for  the  next  ten 
years,"  he  said,  in  soothing  tones. 

His  jibe  aroused  the  sleeping  tigress  in  her.  The 
lady  rose  and  pointed  toward  the  door.  Her 


,.   THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         189 

gown  was  a  masterpiece  of  dressmaking  art,  for 
singular  as  it  may  seem  her  income  had  not 
been  stopped.  Upon  her  breast  lay  jewels  worth 
many  thousands;  about  her  neck  was  clasped  a 
dog-collar  weighted  with  heavy  pearls;  and  her 
fingers  sparkled  with  gems. 

"  You  can  go ! "  exclaimed  the  lady,  stamping 
her  foot — this  lady  who  would  have  been  nobody 
without  the  wealth  that  this  man  had  lavished  on 
her.  "All  these  years  you've  considered  every- 
body but  your  wife,"  she  went  on.  "  I've  had  to 
bear  the  brunt  of  it  all.  I — I.  .  .  .  The  idea 
of  you  letting  them  send  you  up  for  ten  years,  of 
heaping  all  this  infamy  on  me!  I  shall  sue  for 
divorce,  do  you  hear,  divorce !  " 

'  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Wilkinson,  again  meekly 
glancing  at  his  counsel. 

"Go!"  she  exclaimed;  then  added  with  com- 
mendable melodramatic  force:  "You  and  your 
paid  hireling  there,  leave  me ! " 

Colonel  Morehead  grew  purple  in  the  face.  He 
advanced  toward  his  client's  wife. 

"  Madam,"  he  began  angrily. 

"Come,  Morehead,  come  away!"  exclaimed 
Wilkinson,  and  he  led  him  out  into  the  hall  where 
he  said:  "Don't  you  know  she'd  have  scratched 
your  face  if  you'd  stayed  there  any  longer?" 

Tumultuously  they  descended  the  stairs  and 
crept  into  the  den  on  the  floor  below. 

"  That's  over,"  sighed  the  husband,  setting  the 


190         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

decanter  on  the  table  and  passing  the  cigars.     And 
for  a  while,  at  least,  the  two  men  smoked  in  peace. 

Blissfully  happy  was  the  condition  that  Leslie 
told  herself  that  she  was  in  that  evening.  They 
had  assured  her  after  the  council  of  war  behind 
closed  doors  that  everything  would  come  out  right. 
And  now,  last  but  not  least,  Beekman  was  alone 
with  her  and  telling  her  the  same  thing. 

"The  verdict  is  ridiculous,"  he  said.  "Public 
prejudice,  that's  all.  The  Appellate  Division  will 
fill  it  full  of  holes." 

"You're  sure?"  she  asked,  still  a  trifle  dubious. 

Beekman  smiled  confidently. 

"  Look  here,  Leslie,"  he  returned  consolingly, 
"lots  of  rich  men  have  been  indicted  and  tried 
lately,  haven't  they?  You  haven't  heard  of  any 
of  them  having  been  imprisoned  so  far,  have  you? 
It's  just  a  bit  of  hysteria,  but  the  Appellate  courts 
don't  get  hysterical.  We'll  win  out  upon  appeal." 

"  There's — there's  something,  Eliot,  I  wanted  to 
say  to  you."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on :  "If  I'd  been  on  that  jury  and  a  murderer 
had  been  on  trial,  after  hearing  your  defence,  no 
matter  what  I  knew  your  man  had  done,  I  would 
have  acquitted  him,  I  know.  I  think  you're  won- 
derful!" 

"  If  only  our  jury  had  felt  as  you  feel,  Leslie," 
he  responded  soberly.  "  If  only  they  had  acquit- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         191 

ted," — and  he  was  looking  into1  her  eyes  now, — 
"  why,  things  would  be  different  to-night,  so  far  as 
you  and  I  are  concerned." 

The  girl  flushed  prettily,  but  did  not  dare  to 
meet  his  glance. 

"  We're  going  to  fight  it  to  a  finish,  aren't  we?  " 
she  faltered. 

"  That's  the  compact,"  he  returned.  "  You're 
right — we'll  fight  it  to  a  finish — first." 

"  To  see  you,  Miss  Wilkinson."  The  voice  was 
that  of  Jeffries,  and  he  was  handing  her  a  card. 
Leslie  took  it  and,  turning  slightly  pale,  started 
to  leave  the  room.  Before  going  out,  however,  she 
stopped  and  made  her  excuse  to  Eliot,  begging  him 
to  wait  until  she  returned.  In  the  hall  she  asked 
Jeffries  where  her  caller  was  to  be  found;  she  was 
told  that  he  was  in  the  music-room.  In  front  of 
the  door  she  paused  and  considered  a  moment. 
Not  that  she  was  not  genuinely  grateful  for  all 
that  Leech  had  done  for  her  father  that  afternoon, 
but  out  of  all  that  day's  experiences  one  thing  clung 
to  her  memory  more  persistently  than  any  other: 
the  audacious  admiration  in  the  glance  of  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  court-room  and  was 
now  waiting  for  her. 

However,  she  swept  into  the  room  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  Miss  Wilkinson,"  said  Leech,  meeting  her  half 
way  and  holding  her  hand  in  his  longer  than  nee- 


i92         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

essary,  "  I  had  to  come  here  to  -explain  my  part  in 
your  father's  prosecution.  Personally  I  am  not 
responsible  for  it.  I  am  a  mere  machine.  Mur- 
gatroyd  presses  the  button  and  we — I  start  up  and 
go  through  the  day's  work,  willy  nilly.  I  wanted 
you  to  know,  as  I  said  before,  that  I  am  not  re- 
sponsible." 

Never  once  did  the  man's  eyes  leave  the  girl's 
face;  his  look  was  one  of  bold  admiration.  He 
wanted  the  dainty  girl  before  him,  wanted  the 
things  that  she  stood  for :  the  ease,  the  excitement, 
the  power  that  great  wealth  brings.  Besides,  he 
was  assured  of  something  that  Beekman  did  not 
even  suspect,  that  Leslie,  even,  didn't  know,  and 
that  was  that  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  had  somewhere 
millions  upon  millions,  and  that  the  man  who 
married  Leslie  Wilkinson  would  sip  the  nectar  of 
the  gods  from  the  first  tolling  of  the  marriage 
bell. 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Leech,  you  merely  did  your  duty," 
she  answered  somewhat  coldly,  lowering  her  eyes 
under  his  frank  gaze.  "We  have  intelligence 
enough  for  that.  We're  not  altogether  narrow 
here." 

"  I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  you  understood  my 
position,"  he  proceeded,  "  to  feel  that  my  sympa- 
thies are  with  your  father — with  you.  Yes,  to  the 
extent  that  were  I  a  free  agent,  and  not  bound  by 
my  oath  to  the  People,  I'd  turn  in  and  work  my 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         193 

fingers  to  the  bone  for  your  father."  He  moved 
a  little  closer  to  her,  and  added  significantly,  "  for 
you." 

When  Leslie  returned  to  Beekman,  singularly 
enough,  she  said  nothing  to  Beekman  of  the  As- 
sistant District  Attorney's  brief  visit;  nor  later  did 
she  mention  it  to  her  father.  It  would  have  dis- 
turbed Beekman;  it  would  have  pleased  Wilkin- 
son ;  but  she  could  not  know  that. 


XIII 

IT  was  a  beautiful  day  in  the  early  part  of  Sum- 
mer. On  the  deck  of  the  Marchioness,  only  a 
short  time  ago  put  in  commission,  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson was  lying  back  in  his  steamer  chair,  luxur- 
iously. New  York  was  experiencing  one  of  the 
season's  first  hot  days,  but  under  the  awning  of 
the  after  deck  of  the  Marchioness,  and  out  of 
sight  of  land  as  she  was,  a  delicious  ocean  breeze 
made  life  worth  living,  so  it  seemed,  at  any  rate, 
to  the  two  men  sitting  there,  ever  and  anon  calling 
to  the  steward,  and  refreshing  themselves  with 
Wilkinson's  choicest  wines  and  liqueurs  with 
which  the  yacht  was  stocked. 

"  Do  you  know,"  remarked  Wilkinson  with  a 
short  laugh,  as  he  threw  over  the  side  an  unfin- 
ished cigar  and  lighted  a  fresh  one,  "  I  ought  to 
have  taken  Leslie's  original  advice — ought  to  have 
sailed  away  on  the  Marchioness  when  they  indicted 
me." 

"You'd  be  in  the  thick  of  the  trouble,  Peter," 
returned  his  counsel  sagely. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Wilkinson,  "don't  know  but 
I'll  do  it  now,  and  take  you  with  me,  Colonel." 

"  Don't  care  if  you  do.  It  would  end  my  trou- 
bles." 

Wilkinson  tapped  the  Colonel  on  the  knee. 
194 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         195 

"  Tell  me,  Colonel,  how  much  money  does  that 
blatherskite  get  a  year?" 

"What  blatherskite?" 

"  Gilchrist — the  chap  that  had  the  nerve  to  sen- 
tence me." 

Morehead  told  him;  Wilkinson  opened  wide  his 
eyes. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that's  all  he  makes 
— his  salary?" 

The  Colonel  nodded. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  who 
only  gets  that  much  a  year  has  the  power  to  put 
away  a  man  like  me — can  do  a  thing  like  that? 
What  are  we  coming  to  in  the  United  States?" 

The  Colonel  laughed  heartily. 

"  That  man  Gilchrist  is  a  marked  man  from  now 
on,"  went  on  Wilkinson.  "  His  degradation  has 
begun.  He  sentenced  me  all  right;  and  I've  sen- 
tenced him.  I'll  see  to  it  that  he's  hounded  out  of 
New  York.  Any  man  that  tries  to  set  himself  up 
before  me — may  stand  up  for  five  minutes  or  so, 
but  he'll  go  down  as  sure  as  death  and  taxes. 
Every  man  that's  prosecuted  me,  touched  me,  laid 
his  hands  on  me  physically  or  figuratively,  is  go- 
ing to  get  it.  I've  got  a  heavy  hand,  Morehead, 
and  they're  going  to  feel  it.  They're  going  to 
know  it's  me.  Gilchrist  will  get  his,  first." 

The  lawyer  sniffed  the  breeze  and  closed  his 
eyes  in  ecstasy. 


I96         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"Oh,  come  now,  Peter.  ..II  haven't  en- 
joyed a  day  like  this  in  years." 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  brought  you  along  to  have 
you  enjoy  yourself?  "  bluntly. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  credit  you  with  that  nobility  of 
character,  Peter.  But  I'm  here  no  matter  what 
your  purpose  may  have  been,  and  I  propose  to  en- 
joy myself." 

The  multi-millionaire  received  this  remark  in 
silence.  Colonel  Morehead  was  one  of  the  few 
independent  men  he  had  ever  met.  Wilkinson 
could  never  quite  make  him  out,  and  therefore  was 
afraid  of  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Morehead's 
code  was  a  simple  one:  he  merely  did  his  duty 
towards  his  clients  in  his  own  way;  and  if  they 
didn't  like  it,  that  was  their  affair  and  not  his. 
His  acquired  indifference  was  his  greatest  capital. 

"  At  any  rate,"  growled  his  host,  "  I  suppose 
I'm  paying  you  by  the  minute  all  the  time  you're 
here." 

"  Presume  you  are,  Peter,"  sweetly  answered  the 
Colonel;  "and  that's  a  pleasure,  too,  to  both  of 
us,  I'm  sure." 

"  Business  before  pleasure  is  my  motto,  you 
know,"  resumed  Wilkinson.  "I  brought  you  out 
here  to  have  a  quiet  talk  where  even  Flomerfelt 
or  Patrick  Durand  cannot  hear  it.  I  haven't  been 
able  to  pin  you  down  to  my  case  since  my  convic- 
tion. Look  here,  Morehead,"  he  went  on  appeal- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         197 

ingly,  "we'll  reverse  this  sentence  a  hundred  times 
over,  eh?" 

The  Colonel,  who  had  been  sprawling  lazily 
across  his  steamer  chair,  at  this  drew  himself  up 
to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Now  look  here,  Wilkinson,  we've  appealed 
this  case,  and  we've  filed  a  bond,  and  you're  out 
on  bail.  ..." 

"And  we'll  win  out  on  appeal?" 

"  I  was  about  to  remark,"  went  on  the  lawyer, 
quietly,  "  that  your  case  will  go  first  to  the  Appel- 
late Division,  then  to  the  Court  of  Appeals,  then — 
maybe  to  the  United  States  Supreme  Court.  Then 
a  few  certificates  of  reasonable  doubt,  motions, 
stays,  etc.  It  will  take  months,  months,  even  if 
they  rush  it  through.  There's  no  hurry  about  dis- 
cussing it;  we  can  take  our  time." 

Wilkinson  was  about  to  speak,  but  Morehead 
raised  his  hand. 

"  Since  we're  talking  business,  Peter,  I  may  as 
well  get  to  it,  so  that  you  can  enjoy  your  pleasure 
afterward."  He  got  up,  yawned  and  stretched 
himself.  Then  looking  Peter  straight  in  the  eye, 
he  added :  "  What  I  wanted  to  impress  upon  you 
is,  that  after  our  last  card  is  played,  this  convic- 
tion and  this  sentence  are  going  to  be " 

"  Reversed,  as  sure  as  guns ! "  cried  out  Wil- 
kinson. 

"  This  conviction  and  this  sentence,"  went  on  the 


198         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

lawyer,  ignoring  the  interruption,  "will  be  af- 
firmed." And  so  saying  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  puffed  away  contentedly.  A  moment 
later  he  added :  "  Now,  Peter,  business  is  over,  let's 
enjoy  ourselves.  What  do  you  call  that  thing 
yonder — a  schooner  or  a  hermaphrodite  brig?  " 

His  wealthy  client  swaggered  to  the  fore  once 
more. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  who's 
worth  a  hundred  million  is  actually  going  to  serve 
ten  years  in  State's  Prison  at  hard  labour?  That's 
nonsense ! " 

"  I  mean  precisely  what  I  say,"  said  Morehead, 
his  voice  ringing  prophetically,  "that  this  ver- 
dict and  this  sentence  are  going  to  be  affirmed." 

"  I'll  spend  five — ten  million  to  reverse  it." 

"Spend  it,  then,  and  I'll  help  you,  and  when 
you're  through  you'll  know  that  I  spoke  the  truth 
— affirmance,  not  reversal."  He  stopped  abruptly, 
then  rising  and  plunging  his  hands  deep  in  his  trou- 
sers pocket,  he  suddenly  put  the  question  to  him: 
"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me,  Peter,  whom  your  daughter 
is  going  to  marry?  I'm  interested." 

"What  the  devil  has  that  got  to  do  with  this 
case?" 

"  By  the  way,"  went  on  Morehead,  ignoring 
purposely  the  other's  outburst,  "where  is  your 
daughter  now?" 

"Home." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         199 

"Then  you'd  better  swing  the  Marchioness 
about.  When  you  get  home  you  can  find  out  if 
you  do  not  already  know." 

"How  should  I  know?  there's  a  dozen  cubs 
hanging  around — none  of  them  good  enough  for 
her.  Leslie's  got  to  marry  well." 

"Has  she?  A  fine  chance  she  has,  with  her 
father  a  convict  under  a  prison  sentence !  Come, 
come,  man,  why  don't  you  give  your  captain  or- 
ders ?  I  want  to  know  whom  this  girl  of  yours  is 
going  to  marry — and  right  away." 

Wilkinson  chuckled. 

"Might  send  a  wireless.   ..." 

"You'd  get  a  most  remarkable  answer,  Peter." 
Morehead  was  now  striding  up  and  down,  nerv- 
ous, energetic  strides  they  were,  for  he  had  shaken 
off  his  tendency  to  enjoyment.  "  I  say,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  haven't  heard  you  mention  a  word  about 
the  political  situation  so  far;  you're  usually  pretty 
enthusiastic." 

"  How  can  a  man  be  enthusiastic  about  politics 
when  he's  got  the  sword  of  Damocles  over  his 
head." 

"You're  going  to  open  fire  on ' Gilchrist,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Sure." 

"That's  politics,"  said  Morehead,  "and  now 
that  we're  on  the  subject,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favour.  Wilkinson,  I  want  my  man  put  up  for 


200        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

governor  this  year,  and  I  want  your  backing,  you 
understand — your  influence,  your  money,  all  to 
back  my  man.  Can  I  count  on  you,  Peter?" 

Wilkinson  thought  a  moment  before  answer- 
ing. 

"  Who  is  your  man?  " 

"  Um,"  smiled  Morehead,  "  I  don't  know  that 
—yet." 

A  short  time  after  Wilkinson's  return  from  the 
yachting  trip,  Leslie  received  a  message  that  her 
father  would  like  to  see  her.  She  found  him  with 
an  unlighted  cigar  between  his  fingers  sitting  in  his 
big  arm-chair  in  the  Den,  gazing  into  space,  his 
face  like  a  mask. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  father,  and  I  came,"  she 
said,  entering,  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  he  told  her  in  a  level  unemo- 
tional voice,  "to  find  out  something — something 
that  you  can  tell  me  if  you  will.  Strange  things 
are  happening  nowadays.  There  are  matters  I'd 
like  to  settle  before " 

"Before  what?"  she  asked,  startled. 

"  Before  I  plunge  into  this  appeal  and  forget 
everything  else,"  he  answered  easily;  but  now  with 
just  enough  anxiety  in  his  manner  to  alarm  her, 
he  repeated:  "There's  something  that  I've  got 
to  know — something  that  only  you  can  tell  me, 
girlie." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         201 

"I'll  tell  you  anything,  father,"  she  answered 
softly. 

Wilkinson  caught  her  by  the  hand  and  drew 
her  to  him,  asking  so  suddenly  that  she  started: 
"Who's  the  man  you're  going  to  marry?  " 

The  girl  disengaged  herself  from  her  father's 
embrace.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  and  she 
laughed  a  little  uneasily.  After  a  moment  she 
answered : 

"How  can  I  tell!  He — nobody's  asked  me. 
Has  anybody  asked  you,  father?" 

Wilkinson  chuckled  over  her  reply,  though  her 
evasiveness  slightly  irritated  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  is  it  Berry  Broughton,  or 
Larry  Pendexter,  or  Montgomery?"  Her  father 
rattled  on  without  giving  her  a  chance  to  answer, 
the  girl's  face  growing  more  and  more  scarlet  as  he 
proceeded. 

"  It  must  be  Eliot  Beekman  or  Tommy  Cad- 
walader,"  he  declared,  searching  her  face.  But 
still  Leslie  made  no  answer,  though  there  was  the 
same  embarrassed  flush  upon  her  countenance. 

"Well,  can't  you  tell  me  who  it  is?"  he  ques- 
tioned impatiently. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  protested,  "  really,  I  do 
not." 

"  But  I've  got  to  know,"  persisted  her  father. 

But  whether  she  could  not  or  would  not  tell 
him,  his  efforts  were  unsuccessful,  for  she  merely 


202         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

fled  in  a  panic  from  the  room.  So  that  it  was 
in  a  voice  whose  tone  was  one  of  defeat  that  he 
called  out : 

"  You  can  come  now,  Colonel !  " 

From  the  heavy  curtains  Colonel  Morehead 
emerged — a  grim  figure  lying  in  ambush,  he 
seemed,  as  he  asked: 

"Well!  who's  the  lucky  man?" 

"Blamed  if  I  could  find  out." 

"  But  I  did.  Eliot  Beekman  is  the  lucky  man, 
Peter." 

"How  do  you  know?  " 

"You  may  think  you  know  men,  but,  at  any 
rate,  you  don't  know  women,  Peter.  I  merely 
watched  her  face." 

"So  did  I,"  spluttered  Wilkinson,  "but  I 
didn't  ..." 

"  Peter,  you  asked  me  the  name  of  my  candidate 
for  governor,"  said  Morehead  himself  in  a  man- 
ner that  suggested  that  he  was  quite  ready  to  get 
down  to  business. 

"Well?" 

"  His  name  is  Eliot  Beekman." 

Peter  V.  Wilkinson  looked  his  surprise. 

"And  why  Beekman?" 

"  One  reason  is  because  he's  going  to  marry 
your  daughter.  I  was  satisfied  of  that,  even  be- 
fore I  heard  this  interview.  But  there  are  other 
reasons :  he's  a  partisan ;  he's  taken  sides  with  you ; 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         203 

the  boy  believes  in  you ;  and  as  long  as  your  daugh- 
ter sticks  to  him  he's  bound  to  believe  in  you,  and 
he'll  stick  to  you,  too.  Now,  Peter,  do  you  see 
why  I've  picked  him  for  governor,  and  why  I 
want  your  backing?" 

"There's  one  thing  I  don't  quite  see,  and  that 
is  your  real  reason  for  wanting  him  for  gov- 
ernor. Tell  me  that,  will  you,  Colonel  ?  " 

Colonel  Morehead  took  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  and  thrusting  his  face  close  to  Wilkinson's, 
he  said,  speaking  very  distinctly  so  that  his  client 
should  not  misunderstand  his  meaning: 

"  Because,  my  dear  Peter,  after  you've  spent  your 
millions  on  appeals  and  bribes  and  legal  curlyques 
— when  you  find  at  the  end  of  the  race  that  a  ten- 
year  term  is  still  staring  you  in  the  face,  it  will  be 
a  deuced  comfortable  thing,  Peter,  to  know  that  up 
in  Albany  you've  got  a  friend,  a  partisan,  a  son- 
in-law  who's  got  the  power  to  pardon." 

There  was  a  pregnant  pause  in  which  both  men 
watched  each  other  with  a  curious  expression  on 
their  faces.  Finally  Wilkinson  rose  and  strode 
around  the  end  of  the  desk,  and  holding  out  his 
hand,  he  said: 

"  Colonel,  I've  been  curt  and  disagreeable  in  my 
talk  to  you.  I  want  to  say  now  that  I  take  back 
everything,  except  the  good  things,  that  I've  said. 
You're  a  wonder — a  perfect  wonder !  " 

"  Remember,  I'm  to  manage  this  campaign," 


204         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

warned  the  Colonel.  "  Everything  will  be  done 
from  the  outside.  No  one,  not  even  Leslie  nor 
Beekman,  must  know  a  word  about  it.  You 
promise?" 

"  I  promise  to  keep  my  hands  off,"  agreed  Wil- 
kinson, but  the  next  instant  he  added:  "  Come  to 
think  of  it,  though,  I  don't  see  why  we  have  to  do 
it.  I'm  sure  that  my  conviction  will  never  get  that 
far.  If  necessary  I'll  buy  up  every  judge  from 
here  to  Washington." 


XIV 

LABOURING  evidently  under  the  stress  of  some  new 
and  strange  excitement,  a  man  strode  swiftly 
through  the  darkness  of  the  night.  He  was  a  tall, 
spare  individual,  clothed  from  neck  to  heel  in  a 
long,  loose  raincoat  that  clung  closely  to  his  body, 
though  the  ends  flapped  freely  in  the  wind.  It  was 
a  dark,  stormy  night  early  in  November,  and  al- 
though the  storm  pelted  his  uplifted  face  as  he 
sped  along,  he  never  heeded  the  'elements ;  nor  did 
he  notice  that  few  pedestrians  were  abroad  on  a 
night  that,  had  the  weather  been  more  propitious, 
would  have  been  a  gala  night.  As  it  was,  the 
crowds  were  under  cover.  Street-cars  were  loaded 
to  their  limit,  taxi-cabs  and  hansoms  by  the  hun- 
dreds passed  and  repassed,  so  that  any  time  he 
might  have  escaped  this  drenching  by  lifting  his 
finger.  But  the  storm,  after  all,  was  what  he 
wanted;  it  cooled  and  steadied  him;  and  as  he  went 
along  he  laughed  gently  to  himself  from  time  to 
time. 

"  I  got  away  from  them,  all  right,"  he  mur- 
mured, half  aloud. 

"  Them  "  had  been  a  mob  of  men  at  the  Barris- 
ters' Club.  They  had  surrounded  him  suddenly 
with  outstretched  hands,  dragging  him  unmerci- 

205 


206         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

fully  about.  But  at  last,  though  this  demonstra- 
tion had  made  him  happy,  he  had  torn  himself 
away  to  enjoy  a  greater  happiness — one  that 
meant  all  the  world  to  him. 

At  the  foot  of  a  long  hill  he  stopped  and  glanced 
toward  its  summit.  To  him,  somehow,  it  seemed 
typical  of  his  own  career — a  slow  climb,  but  with 
a  vision  of  glory  at  the  top.  And  before  he  knew 
it  he  had  mounted  the  summit  and  was  waiting 
to  be  admitted  into  the  presence  of  the  one  woman 
he  loved. 

"This  way,  sir,"  Jeffries  whispered  in  his  ear. 

With  a  hasty  movement  Beekman  flung  off  his 
dripping  raincoat,  dashed  the  drops  from  his  face 
with  a  flirt  of  his  handkerchief,  and  the  next  in- 
stant he  was  standing  face  to  face  with  Leslie,  who 
came  toward  him,  smiling  as  she  exclaimed: 

"Where  have  you  been  hiding?  I've  kept  the 
wires  going  all  this  afternoon  and  evening  trying 
to  find  out  about  you." 

"  Leslie,"  he  answered,  his  face  ruddy  with  the 
swift  walk  and  dampness,  "they  piled  on  top  of 
me  down  at  the  club,  but  I  got  away  from  them — 
nearly  tdre  the  clothes  from  me,  the  beggars! 
You  know  what's  happened,  don't  you?" 

For  answer  she  looked  at  him  critically,  burst- 
ing out  with: 

"  Indeed  I  do !  Stand  off  a  moment — let  me 
look  at  you — Governor  Beekman." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         207 

He  laughed  soberly. 

"  It  sounds  fine,  doesn't  it?  " 

Leslie  continued  to  gaze  at  him  with  pride. 

"  Do  you  know,  Leslie,"  he  went  on,  "  I  can't 
realise  it — can't  understand  why  Broderick — why 
the  organisation  picked  me  of  all  men  for  the 
office.  Wanted  a  clean  man,  they  said — the  wave 
of  reform  demanded  it,  and  they  didn't  know  any- 
one who  would  fill  the  bill  as  well  as  I." 

Leslie  sobered. 

"It's  destiny,"  she  said.  "You  were  meant  to 
go  up,  up,  up.  ... " 

"  Stop ! "  he  called  out  with  a  well-feigned 
frightened  look  on  his  face.  "  I'm  high  enough 
now." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  fine,"  she  continued  with  girlish 
enthusiasm,  "  if,  after  this,  you  could  be  United 
States  Senator,  Vice-President,  and  after  that 
possibly " 

"The  Big  Job?"  He  laughed.  "Why,  I 
haven't  even  been  sworn  in  yet."  He  stopped 
suddenly.  "  But  I  want  to  see  your  father,  Les- 
lie," his  voice  losing  its  note  of  gaiety,  "  I  want  to 
tell  him " 

Leslie,  too,  left  laughter  behind  her. 

"  Father's  in  his  Den,"  she  said  quietly,  "  smok- 
ing his  quota  of  big  black  cigars.  The  poor  old 
dear  feels  pretty  blue.  The  Appellate  Division 
decision  ." 


208        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

On  his  way  to  the  Den  Beekman  stopped  and 
turned  round,  saying: 

"  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  understand,  Leslie, 
why  they  affirmed  that  sentence.  If  they  only  half 
read  Colonel  Morehead's  brief,  or  even  mine,  they 
surely  would  have  been  convinced.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  suppose  it  is — whose  influence  is  behind  this 
thing?" 

Leslie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Father  says  that  the  National  Banks  have  set 
their  face  against  the  Trust  Companies — and  it 
looks  as  if  he  were  to  be  the  victim  of  the 
clash." 

"Ground  between  the  upper  and  nether  mill- 
stones," mused  Beekman,  shaking  his  head  in  gen- 
uine anguish  of  mind.  Then  he  stiffened  and  his 
eyes  flashed.  "It  will  never  stand,  Leslie;  nor 
can  I  see  how  Ougheltree  of  the  National  Bank 
clique  can  have  any  weight  with  the  courts.  But 
at  any  rate,  when  this  thing  gets  up  at  Albany  be- 
fore the  Court  of  Appeals,  all  local  influence  will 
fade  away.  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  will  get  justice 
there.  The  other  side  are  fighting  only  for  money, 
but  with  us,  Durand,  Morehead  and  myself,  why 
it's  a  fight  for  life,  almost — and  we'll  beat  'em 
out." 

B'eekman's  outburst  took  Leslie  quite  by  storm. 
She  had  never  seen  him  so  roused,  so  strong,  so 
fine. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        209 

"You  make  me  sorry  that  you're  Governor, 
Eliot,"  she  said,  her  heart  beating  fast,  "  for  I 
suppose  now  you're  unable  to  be  my  father's  coun- 
sel— or  does  a  governor  still  practise  law?" 

Beekman's  head  drooped. 

"You're  right,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  suppose 
I'm  out  of  the  fight.  But  the  others  are  just  as 
determined  to  win." 

"How  I  wish  father  could  have  heard  you  a 
moment  ago !  "  erred  the  girl,  wistfully.  "  He 
would  then  understand  what  genuine  loyalty  is. 
He  thinks  every  man  he  knows,  and  every  woman, 
too,  I  guess,  save  me,  is  a  time  server.  Every  man 
has  his  price,  according  to  his  idea.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  thinks  that  he  has  a  genuine  friend  in  all 
the  world — not  one.  Isn't  it  hopeless  to  suspect 
everyone  like  that?" 

"How  can  he  help  it?"  returned  Beekman, 
pointedly.  "  Just  what  I  told  you  about  the  rich 
American  girl — how  is  she  going  to  know,  under- 
stand the  motives  of  men  .  .  .  ?  " 

Leslie's  face  went  suddenly  white;  then  she 
suggested  almost  too  hastily,  so  she  reflected 
later : 

"  If  you  want  to  see  my  father,  remember  he's 
in  the  Den."  And  an  instant  later  Beekman  found 
himself  standing  in  the  presence  of  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson. 

In  his  exuberance   of  joy  Wilkinson  almost  flung 


2io         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

himself  at  Beekman.  He  grasped  the  other's 
hand  with  both  of  his,  then  clapped  him  heavily 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Governor,  my  boy,  you  made  a  grand  fight — 
a  great  fight!  You're  the  right  man  in  the  right 
place !  Proud  of  you,  I  am." 

"Now  about  the  Appellate  Division  .  .  ." 
began  Beekman,  but  Wilkinson  would  have  none 
of  it. 

"  Not  on  your  life !  "  said  he.  "  Never  mind 
me!  No  troubles  to-night — only  wine  and  was- 
sail. All  Governor  and  nothing  else.  The  re- 
turns are  all  in,  aren't  they?  No  contests — noth- 
ing doubtful — sure  thing — you're  Governor  and 
no  mistake?" 

"No  mistake,  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  smiled  Beek- 
man. "  It's  all  right." 

For  an  instant  Beekman  hesitated  and  glanced 
about  the  room  as  though  for  inspiration,  then  his 
eyes  settled  down  once  more  on  Peter  V. 

"  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  he  stammered,  "  I'm  a  bit 
old-fashioned,  I  suppose,  all  wrong,  from  the 
modern  point  of  view,  but  I've  got  something  on 
my  mind — something " 

"  Out  with  it,"  laughed  the  older  man. 

The  Governor-elect  gulped. 

"  It's — your — your  daughter  Leslie,"  he  went 
on,  still  floundering.  "  I  want  to  marry  her — 
thought  I'd  ask  you  first." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        211 

"Ask  me  first?"  exploded  Peter  V.  Wilkinson. 
"Haven't  you  asked  her  yet?" 

"  Her  money — I've  always  been  afraid  of  peo- 
ple with  a  lot  of  money,  and " 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  gurgled 
Wilkinson;  "I  haven't  any  left." 

"  But  the  principle  is  the  same,"  insisted  Beek- 
man.  "  I  wanted  to  be  sure,  that's  all." 

"Suppose  I  refuse?" 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,  I  should  ask  her  anyway — 
and  get  her  too,  I  think.  I'm  merely  trying  to  do 
my  duty  by  you,  don't  you  see." 

Wilkinson  raised  his  hand  and  brought  it  down 
heavily  upon  the  Governor's  shoulder  once  more. 

"Governor,"  he  said,  "you've  always  done 
right  by  me,  and  I  believe  you  always  will — I've 
that  much  faith  in  you.  As  for  the  rest,  I  don't 
know  of  any  man  that  I'd  rather  trust  my  daughter 
Leslie  to,  than  you." 

Beekman's  blood  rushed  tumultuously  through 
his  veins. 

"  I  don't  deserve "  he  began  quite  formally, 

but  Wilkinson  cut  him  off. 

"You  understand,"  said  he,  searching  his  face, 
"  that  your  being  Governor  makes  no  difference  to 
me.  I  give  you  Leslie  because  I  like  you — I  think 
you're  a  man." 

Beekman  left  the  room  intoxicated  with  success. 
Indeed  such  was  the  magnetism  of  Peter  V. 


212        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

that  Beekman  left  his  presence,  like  many  a 
man  before  him,  with  a  feeling  that  he  would  be 
willing  to  face  death,  if  necessary,  in  Wilkinson's 
defence. 

The  girl  was  waiting  where  he  had  left 
her. 

"  Leslie,"  he  began  and  got  no  further,  for  the 
words  that  he  had  planned  to  say  would  not  come 
to  him.  Finally  he  stammered  out :  "  It's  this 
way,  you  see.  We're  equals  now — that  is,  you're 
the  daughter  of  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  and  I'm  the 
Governor  of  the  State.  Consequently  I  dare — oh, 
I  want  you — there !  " 

Leslie  tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  was  too  quick 
for  her.  He  caught  her  and  drew  her  close  to 
him,  and  for  one  instant  his  lips  met  hers.  Then 
she  wrenched  herself  away. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  want  of  me,  Eliot,  quick," 
she  panted,  a  new,  wild,  haunting  expression  in 
her  eyes. 

"  My  wife,"  he  stammered,  swiftly  advancing 
toward  her.  "  My  wife — I  know  that  you — that 
you " 

Her  eyes  sought  the  pattern  of  the  Kirzan  un- 
derneath their  feet. 

"You  know  nothing,"  she  said,  her  hands 
tightly  clenched,  the  colour  coming  and  receding 
on  her  face. 

"  I — I  saw  it  in  your  eyes,"  he  pleaded. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        213 

"You  saw  nothing  in  my  eyes,"  she  answered, 
speaking  very  determinedly. 

Beekman  paused.  Presently  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  trinket  and  held  it  out. 

"Leslie,"  he  whispered,  "perhaps  I've  been 
presumptuous,  but  you  know  I  have  always  told 
you  that  I  am  old-fashioned.  I  got  this  for 
you." 

"  It's  just  like  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  trinket 
for  an  instant.  "There's  not  a  man  in  all  New 
York  who  would  have  thought  of  buying  the  ring 
before — perhaps  I  like  you  for  it,  though." 

"  But  what  will  you  think  of  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  had  an  inscription  put  on  the  inner  circle? 
.You  had  better  read  it,  hadn't  you?  " 

For  an  instant  Leslie  felt  herself  weakening  as 
she  saw  their  initials  on  the  ring.  With  difficulty 
she  restrained  her  tears,  and  it  was  with  a  sad  little 
smile  that  she  now  handed  him  back  the  ring. 

Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"Eliot,"  she  said  in  an  unnatural  voice,  "I'm 
not  blaming  you.  You  did  only  what  you  thought 
you  had  the  right  to  do.  More  than  that,  I  may 
have  led  you  on.  But  it  can  never  be.  No,  don't 
come  near  me,  please,  I  mean  it.  You  don't  know; 
you  can't  understand;  things  happen  very  sud- 
denly, sometimes.  I  can't  marry  you,  Eliot,  that's 
all.  I  can't  ...  I  can't  .  .  ." 

Beekman's  face  became  scarlet,  for  there  was 


214         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

something  of  the  determination  of  her  father  in 
her  voice. 

"  You've  got  to,"  he  insisted,  for  he  refused  to 
believe  that  she  was  not  for  him. 

But  still  she  retreated  before  him. 

"  I  can't  talk  about  it,"  she  repeated  wearily, 
stubbornly. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?"  he  asked,  forcing 
himself  to  be  calm. 

Leslie  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  His  question 
came  as  a  relief  to  her.  She  seemed  on  the  point 
of  answering  it. 

"Yes,"  she  began,  and  then  pressed  her  hand 
against  her  lips.  "  I  mean,  no — I  can't  tell  you 
anything  except — that  the  whole  thing  is  abso- 
lutely impossible.  You  would  not  understand  if 
I  told  you.  I  should  never  want  you  to  under- 
stand it." 

"Why  wouldn't  you?" 

"  Because  the  instant  that  you  understood  it,  you 
would  find  that  you  couldn't  understand  it,"  she 
told  him  enigmatically.  "And  yet,"  she  mur- 
mured as  though  to  herself,  "  it's  all  so  clear,  so 
plain  to  me." 

Beekman  quickly  ca.ught  her  by  the  wrist.  Her 
hand  still  clenched  itself,  and  he  could  feel  her 
nerves  throbbing  as  with  pain. 

"Your  father  tells  me  it's  all  right,"  he  went 
on,  his  voice  growing  hoarser  as  he  proceeded,  for 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         215 

he  couldn't  see  that  he  was  making  any  headway 
with  the  girl;  "he  approves,  gives  his  consent,  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  He  seemed  glad,  friendly.  It 
seemed  to  be  what  he  wanted.  Why  do  you 
hesitate?" 

'"  I  don't  hesitate,"  she  answered,  though  un- 
certainly. All  the  time  she  was  praying  that  he 
would  let  her  go.  She  wanted  to  escape.  All 
that  she  wished  for  now  was  to  get  to  her  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house,  where  in  solitude  she  could 
rest  and  weep. 

"  My  father,"  she  resumed,  "  knows  nothing — 
nothing  of  my  reasons.  This  is  a  matter  of  my 
.own.  Even  he  couldn't  understand  .  .  ." 

Beekman  dropped  her  hand  and  said: 

"  Leslie,  tell  me  one  thing :  Is  there  some  one 
else?" 

Leslie  looked  down  without  immediately  reply- 
ing and  gradually  grew  pale.  Then  with  one  of 
her  quick  changes  she  looked  up  and  her  eyes  met 
his  in  a  clear,  straight  glance. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  tossing  her  head  in  the  air, 
"there  is  some  one  else." 

"Who?"  he  demanded  in  a  voice  that  was  dis- 
tinctly authoritative. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height  and 
quietly  reminded  him  that  he  had  no  right  to  ask 
the  question.  But  when  Beekman  had  gone, 
Leslie's  face  showed  a  peculiar  change;  the  hard- 


216         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ness  dropped  from  it,  and  was  replaced  by  a  look 
of  intense  sadness. 

At  the  door  of  the  Den  she  stopped  to  bid  her 
father  good-night. 

"  Well,"  he  called  out  cheerfully,  motioning  her 
to  come  in,  "  it's  all  over  then?  " 

Leslie  seated  herself  upon  the  knee  he  offered 
her.  She  was  pale  and  very  tired. 

"  Yes,  it's  all  over — all  over." 

Wilkinson  was  watching  her  closely. 

'"You  seem  to  take  it  hard,  girlie,"  he  returned, 
puzzled. 

"Yes,"  she  sighed. 

He  drew  her  girlish  head  down  against  his 
breast. 

"  He's  a  bully  boy  for  you,  Leslie.  Mrs.  Gov- 
ernor Beekman,  eh  ?  Not  bad !  It's  a  good  thing 
to  have  money,  but  it's  a  great  thing  to  be  a  Mrs. 
Governor,  too,  and  especially  when  the  Governor 
happens  to  be  a  man  and  not  one  of  those  cheap 
politicians.  I  congratulate  you,  little  one." 

"  You  never  used  to  think  much  of  him,"  she 
faltered. 

"  True.  But  I  didn't  know  him.  I  didn't  know 
the  stuff  he  was  made  of.  Colonel  Morehead 
sized  him  up  right  from  the  start.  But  he's  the 
man  for  me,  now,  Beekman  is,  and  no  mistake." 

Leslie  closed  her  eyes  and  whispered  softly,  her 
hand  creeping  about  his  neck: 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        217 

"  Good-night,  father." 

The  next  moment  she  rose  and  slowly  started  to 
the  door  and  then  as  slowly  came  back,  thinking 
to  herself: 

"  I  might  as  well  get  it  over  once  for  all,  so  that 
to-morrow  there'll  be  nothing  to  tell,  nothing  to 
do  but  to  take  up  the  routine  of  life  again."  And 
when  she  reached  her  father's  side,  she  said 
bravely  but  with  a  little  sigh : 

"  Father,  I'm  not  going  to  marry  Eliot  Beek- 


man." 


"Not  going  to "  spluttered  Wilkinson. 

For  the  first  time  in  months  his  colour  fled. 
"  Didn't  he — hasn't  he  asked  you?" 

"Yes,  and  I  refused  him." 

"  What?  "  he  bellowed.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  I  had  my  own  reasons,"  she  replied,  never 
flinching  as  her  father  glowered  upon  her  from 
his  height. 

"A  woman's  reason,  I'll  wager.  What's  the 
trouble  ?  Some  other  chap  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nobody  else,  eh?  Then,  what's  up?  Don't 
you  like  Beekman?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  you  like  him,  but  don't  love  him,  that  is, 
well  enough  to  marry  him.  I  don't  care  so1  much 
about  the  love.  We'll  leave  love  out  of  the  ques- 
tion— it's  too  ticklish  a  subject." 


218        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"I  like  him  too  well  to  marry  him,"  she  an- 
swered earnestly. 

"A  woman's  reason  all  right  enough,"  muttered 
her  father.  "  Talk  United  States,  girlie.  What's 
the  trouble?" 

Once  more  she  clung  to  him,  and  said  very 
tenderly,  now: 

"  Father,  won't  you  rest  content,  won't  you  let 
me  stay  with  you  always,  always  taking  care  of 
you,  doing  for  you — there's  no  one  else.  .  .  ." 
She  caught  his  big  hand  in  hers.  "  I  want  to  go 
down  the  years  with  you,  hand  in  hand,  never 
leaving  you,  father — never.  ..."  She  choked 
suddenly. 

"  You  can  do  that  as  Beekman's  wife,"  he  per- 
sisted. 

"  I  shall  not  be  Beekman's  wife,"  she  insisted, 
strangling  a  sigh. 

"  I  want  to  know  the  reason,"  he  demanded, 
with  that  veiled  threat  in  his  tone  which  never 
failed  of  its  results. 

"Will  you  forgive  if  I  tell  you?" 

"  I  won't  forgive  you  if  you  don't !  " 

Leslie  drew  herself  away  and  leaned  against  the 
door  as  though  for  support,  for  strength. 

"Father,  Eliot  Beekman  wouldn't  ask  me  to 
marry  him  until  he  had  made  a  positon  for  him- 
self, had  something  to  offer  me.  He  has  said  it  a 
thousand  times.  He's  got  pride — too  much  pride, 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        219 

it  seems  to  me.  But  I've  got  pride,  too.  Months 
ago  I  would  have  married  Eliot — he  didn't  know 
that — any  time  he  asked  me.  It's  got  beyond  me 
now.  He's  got  everything  to  offer  me,  I've  got 
nothing  in  return  to  offer  him." 

"Nonsense,  child!  You've  got  money,"  pro- 
tested her  father,  puzzled,  "  at  least  you  have  so 
long  as  I  don't  jump  the  bail." 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  would ! "  she  cried, 
startled  into  sudden  ecstasy  by  the  thought.  Then 
she  went  on:  "Money,  what  is  money  to  me? 
What  was  it  to  Eliot?  Nothing  save  an  obstacle. 
That  isn't  it;  you  haven't  understood;  and  to  tell 
you  I've  got  to  hurt — I've  got  to  say  things  that — 
oh,  don't  misunderstand  me,  please.  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  misunderstand  you  if  you  don't  go  on," 
blurted  out  Wilkinson,  unfeelingly.  "  Quick, 
now!" 

"Why  won't  you  understand,  father,  that  it's 
because  he  has  everything  to  offer,  while  I  have 
nothing.  He's  been  given  the  highest  office  that 
the  State  has  to  give — a  position  that  he  thought 
would  entitle  him  to  me — and  I,  who  am 
I  .  .  ?" 

"  You're  the  woman  he  wants,  the  woman  he's 
earned,  girlie,"  said  her  father,  his  voice  softening. 

"  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  convict,"  she  went  on 
swiftly,  her  tones  cutting  into  the  air  like  frost. 

Her  father  stared  at  her  aghast  for  an  instant. 


220        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Then  he  slowly  returned  to  his  seat  at  his  desk 
aad  slumped  into  it  heavily,  and  groaned. 

"  Ye  gods,  but  you're  harsh!  "  he  cried. 

"You  wanted  to  know  why,"  she  answered, 
"  and  now  you  do  not  understand — you're  every- 
thing to  me,  everything,  father.  But  the  reason — 
the  world,  the  people  of  whom  Eliot  is  going  to 
be  governor,  they  look  only  on  the  record,  and 
I'm  not  his  equal.  Upon  me  rests  this  taint — I'm 
not  complaining — I'm  glad  to  stand  by  you,  father. 
,  .  .  But  I  have  pride — how  can  I,  with  this 
disgrace  upon  us,  give  myself  to  Eliot  Beekman?  " 

"  Nonsense,  girl,"  said  Wilkinson,  pulling  him- 
self together,  "  I'll  get  clear  all  right." 

"  When  you  do,"  she  declared  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  and  if  he  then  asks  me,  I'll  take  him.  If  he  does 
not  ..."  A  sigh  of  misery  escaped  her. 

"You're  a  little  fool!  Confound  it,  Leslie,  this 

thing  was  all  cut  and "  He  checked  himself 

suddenly,  remembering  his  promise  to  the  Colonel. 

"  Cut  and  dried,"  she  echoed  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  this  National  Bank  conspiracy,"  he 
mumbled  in  confusion,  "  the  courts  here  in  the  city 
are  backing  them  up.  But  up  there  in  Albany, 
I'll  get  free,  you'll  see."  And  now  with  a  sudden 
change  of  manner,  he  continued :  "  Look  here, 
Leslie,  I've  got  reasons,  too — reasons  a  darned 
sight  better  than  yours,  why  I  want  you  to  marry 
Eliot  Beekman.  Never  mind  what  they  are.  The 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        221 

fact  is,  I  want  you  to  be  settled — I  want  it  all 
fixed.  ...  I  give  you  my  word — the  Colonel 
will  give  you  his  word  that  I  shall  get  clear.  We 
know  it,  we've  got  it  fixed.  .  .  .  It's  all  right — 
there  can't  be  a  slip  up.  And  now,  besides  my 
freedom,  which  I'm  going  to  get,  there's  only  one 
thing  in  the  world  that  I  want,  and  that  is  that 
you  marry  Eliot  Beekman.  Good  heavens,  girl, 
can't  you  see — don't  you  see  that  this  thing  is  vital 
to  me?  I'm  no  woman,  and  I  don't  speak  at 
random.  You've  got  to  marry  Eliot  Beekman;  if 
you  don't " 

"But  I  can't,"  she  returned  simply;  and  from 
this  decision  there  seemed  no  appeal.  "I  can't 
accept  him  now,  father." 

Leslie  rose  and  made  a  movement  to  go.  But 
Wilkinson,  feeling  as  though  the  hangman's  noose 
was  already  settling  about  his  neck,  snatched  up 
the  receiver  on  his  desk  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  other  he  made  an  authoritative  gesture  for  the 
girl  to  resume  her  seat. 

"Is  Mr.  Flomerfelt  in  the  house?"  he  called 
through  the  instrument. 

A  look  of  pained  surprise  and  annoyance  at 
once  crossed  Leslie's  face.  Heedless  of  it  Wilkin- 
son spoke  again. 

"In  the  library,  you  say?  Give  me  that  room 
and  be  quick  about  it." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  the  eyes  of  both! 


222         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

father  and  daughter  plainly  showed  to  each  other 
the  strength  of  the  will  that  lay  behind  them. 

"Hello— Hello,"    called   Wilkinson,    "is   that 
you,  Flomerfelt?" 


"  Look  here,  Flomerfelt,  had  you  an  idea  that 

Beekman "     Then,  parenthetically,  to  Leslie, 

who  was  beating  against  her  father's  intentions  to 
betray  her  confidences  with  as  much  success  as  a 
bird  beating  against  the  bars  of  its  cage:  "Of 
course,  I'll  tell  him.  Do  you  think  for  one  mo- 
ment that  the  wishes  of  a  silly  girl  like  you  will  be 
allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  our  well-laid  plans 
— not  much !  "  Then  through  the  phone :  "  Yes, 
this  is  Peter  V.  and  .  .  .  Well,  he  has,  and  Leslie 
has  refused  him.  .  .  .  What's  that?  .  .  .  Yes, 
he's  gone.  .  .  .  No,  she's  here  with  me.  .  .  . 
All  right,  I  will."  And  with  that  he  hung  up  the 
receiver,  and  turning  round  and  facing  the  girl  he 
announced :  "  Now,  young  woman,  you  will  listen 
to  my  final  word  in  this  matter."  But  that  word 
was  not  spoken,  for  at  that  moment  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door  and  Jeffries,  entering,  an- 
nounced a  visitor  for  Miss  Wilkinson. 


XV 

THERE  was  a  flush  on  the  face  of  Elinor  Ilings- 
worth  as  she  left  the  office  of  J.  Newton  Leech. 
For  the  hundred  and  first  time,  perhaps,  she  had 
crept  into  the  presence  of  the  Assistant  District 
Attorney,  trusting  that  he  might  have  some  good 
news  for  her.  Her  father  was  her  only  relative; 
she  had  no  friends  in  New  York;  and  her  money 
was  nearly  gone.  At  first,  when  she  had  gone  to 
the  Tombs  to  see  her  father,  the  authorities  had 
permitted  her  to  have  her  talks  with  him  in  the 
counsel  room,  where  Leslie  had  seen  her  father, 
but  as  the  weeks  passed  into  months,  things 
changed,  and  it  ended  in  Elinor's  sitting  on  the 
outside  of  a  cell,  holding  her  father's  hand  between 
the  bars.  And  as  they  sat  there  with  bowed  heads 
her  father  had  told  her,  not  once,  but  a  hundred 
times,  that  he  was  guiltless  of  the  murder  of  Roy 
Pallister.  And  Elinor  believed  and  felt  that  some 
day  the  truth  would  be  known.  Every  hour, 
therefore,  when  it  was  possible  she  spent  in  going 
to  and  fro,  between  the  offices  of  Worth  Higgins 
and  Assistant  District  Attorney  Leech.  Singularly 
enough,  she  received  more  encouragement  from 
the  latter  than  the  former;  indeed,  Higgins  gave 
her  but  little  hope.  Nor  did  he  tell  her  that  a 

223 


224         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

wealthy  newspaper,  for  ulterior  purposes,  was  em- 
ploying him  to  fight  for  her  father.  Enthusiastic 
always  at  the  crisis  of  a  litigation,  Worth  Higgins, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  had  become  cool,  surly, 
sharp  to  Elinor,  as  time  went  on.  Her  visits  an- 
noyed him;  he  rebuffed  her  as  often  as  he  could. 
Leech,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  by  no  means 
chary  of  his  promises  to  help  her  through  her 
troubles;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  ever  profuse, 
when  the  woman  in  question  was  pretty,  and  Elinor 
Ilingsworth  was  unquestionably  pretty. 

"  I  like  to  come  here  after  seeing  that  old  bear," 
Elinor  had  often  said  to  the  Assistant  District  At- 
torney. "Mr.  Higgins  is  beginning  to  hate  the 
sight  of  me." 

"You  see  that  I  do  not,"  invariably  would  be 
his  answer;  and,  waving  her  to  a  seat,  he  would 
take  one  beside  her  and  the  two  would  chat. 

Elinor  was  forced  to  admit  that  Leech  became 
nicer  as  time  went  on.  Always  he  suggested  new 
hopes,  new  speculations,  for  he  saw  that  it  took 
but  little  to  encourage  her.  He  explained  to  her 
carefully  the  quasi-judicial  nature  of  his  office,  how 
the  District  Attorney  in  theory  was  neither  for  nor 
against  the  criminal,  but  was  always  anxious, 
ready  and  willing  to  learn  the  truth.  Soon  he  be- 
gan to  note  that  the  girl  grew  shabbier  in  appear- 
ance day  after  day;  that  her  face  was  thinning, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  dark  and  lustrous. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         225 

"  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  he  had  told  her  time  and 
time  again,  his  pulse  quickening  as  he  felt  the 
pressure  of  her  hand. 

And  Elinor  would  go  forth,  refreshed  and 
strengthened;  while  Leech,  settling  himself  com- 
fortably back  in  his  chair,  would  light  a  cigar,  and 
fall  to  wondering  when  and  what  the  end  of  it  all 
would  be. 

"  A  pretty  girl,"  he  often  reflected,  "  a  mighty 
pretty  girl.  And,  oh,  such  eyes !  " 

It  was  upon  just  such  an  occasion  as  this  that 
Elinor  went  back  to  the  Tombs  more  than  ordi- 
narily encouraged,  and  sought  her  father's  pres- 
ence. She  sat  down  beside  him  and  poured  out  to 
him  her  hopes.  When  she  had  finished  he  bent 
over  her  slender  hand  and  his  mouth  quivered 
while  the  hot  tears  dropped  from  his  working 
face. 

"  We've  lost,"  he  told  her,  in  a  voice  filled  with 
•despair.  "  I  heard  it  only  a  few  moments  ago." 

"  It  can't  be  true,"  she  replied  incredulously, 
and  with  just  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  on  her  face. 
"  Why,  I've  just  left  Mr.  Leech,  and  he  said  noth- 
ing of  it." 

But  nevertheless  it  was  true.  The  old  man 
handed  her  Higgins'  letter,  which  she  read;  it 
verified  what  her  father  had  told  her. 

"  I've  worked  so  hard,"  she  faltered,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  bars  and  sobbing  silently  as 


226         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

though  her  heart  would  break,  "so  very,  very 
hard." 

Ilingsworth  drew  a  long  sigh — a  sigh  that  had 
behind  it  the  regret  of  years. 

"  It's  all  my  fault,"  he  said  through  the  tears 
that  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  "  for  being  such  a  fool 
as  to " 

"As  to "  she  repeated  slowly. 

"As  to  do  anything  at  all,"  he  finished. 
"  Everything,  everything  I've  done,"  he  continued 
sadly,  "  has  been  the  act  of  a  fool.  And  now  I'm 
going  to  die  a  fool's  death.  I  wouldn't  care  if  it 
wasn't  for  you,  child.  But  you — how  are  you  go- 
ing to  get  along?  How  are  you  going  to  get 
along  without  money?"  he  concluded,  breaking 
down  completely. 

"I  have  enough,"  she  answered  consolingly; 
"  don't  mind  me." 

But  in  truth  Elinor  Ilingsworth  had  only  enough 
money  to  pay  for  a  sleeping  place,  and  was  at  her 
wits'  end  to  obtain  sufficient  food. 

"  I'm  all  right,  all  right,  father,"  she  kept  on 
insisting  to  her  father's  upbraiding  of  himself,  now 
smiling  through  the  tears  which  with  difficulty  she 
kept  back,  now  patting  his  hand  affectionately,  al- 
ways cheering  him  up. 

"You're  a  brave  girl,"  he  told  her,  when  their 
interview  was  over,  and  pressed  her  hand  for  a 
long  time  to  his  lips. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         227 

As  Elinor  was  about  to  leave  the  Tombs,  a 
young  woman  looking  very  much  embarrassed 
slowly  emerged  from  a  recess  in  which  there  was  a 
crowd  of  waiting  visitors,  and  came  towards  her, 
saying : 

"You  are  Miss  Ilingsworth ? " 

Elinor  shot  a  quick,  distrustful  glance  toward 
the  intruder,  who,  somehow,  seemed  very  queenly 
to  her,  although  there  was  nothing  expensive  about 
the  woman's  garments.  She  was  dressed  in  simple 
black  clothes.  Elinor  had  hear  of  Tombs'  angels, 
and  presently  decided  that  the  woman  must  be 
one  of  them. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering  what  she 
wanted  of  her. 

"You  don't  know  me,"  went  on  the  woman, 
"  but  I  have  heard  of  you  from — from  friends  of 
mine — that  is,  the  Wilkinsons." 

"  You  refer  to  the  Peter  V.  Wilkinsons,  I  sup- 
pose," returned  Elinor,  icily;  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  added:  "They  are  no  friends  of 
mine,  and  you  must  excuse  me.  .  .  .  You  can't 
possibly  have  anything  of  interest  to  say  to  me," 
she  finished,  and  started  to  go.  But  the  stranger, 
advancing  in  such  a  way  as  to  bar  her  passage, 
pleaded  for  a  hearing. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  explained.  "  But  I  merely 
wanted  to  get  your  attention,  wanted  some  excuse 
for  my  interference.  I  wanted  to  help  you,  if  I 


could.  I  know  more  about  New  York — all  about 
New  York.  I  can  assist  you  in  many  ways. 
Won't  you  let  me?  "  she  concluded  insistently. 

Elinor  was  all  attention. 

"You  mean  that  you  can  help  my  father?"  she 
inquired. 

The  woman  appeared  to  hesitate.  At  length 
she  whispered  "Yes." 

"But  how  can  you?" 

"  In  many  ways.  I  might  be  able  to  find  some 
clue — anyhow,  I  want  to  help — him,  of  course,  but 
particularly  you." 

Elinor  looked  dubious;  nevertheless  she  sug- 
gested : 

"  Perhaps  you'll  come  back  and  talk  to  him." 

Her  new  acquaintance  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  now.  But  isn't  there  something  I  can  do 
for  you?  Don't  you  need " 

"Money?"  Elinor  said,  taking  the  words  out 
of  the  other's  mouth.  "We  have  money,  thank 
you,"  and  added  half  hurriedly,  half  in  embarrass- 
ment: "Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you.  I 
have  an  engagement  with  our  lawyer,  and  I'm 
late." 

The  stranger  laid  her  hand  on  Elinor's  sleeve, 
and  persisted: 

"  But  can't  I  come  and  see  you — won't  you  tell 
me  where  you  live?" 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  and  action  of 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         229 

the  woman  that  Elinor  resented,  though  she  didn't 
know  just  what  it  was. 

"  Really,  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  suspicious  of  me.  I  wish  I 
could  prove  to  you  that  I'm  sincere.  Please  tell 
me  where  I  can  see  you." 

"  To-morrow,  then,  here,"  was  Elinor's  answer, 
and  finally  tore  herself  away. 

The  moment  she  entered  Leech's  office,  he  broke 
out  with : 

"  You  haven't  lunched,  I  know.  Come  on, 
Miss  Ilingsworth,  we'll  lunch  together." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  Mr.  Leech,  I've  lunched  al- 
ready," she  told  him.  But  Leech  saw  clearly  the 
falsity  of  this  statement  in  the  pallor  of  the  girl's 
skin,  in  the  hunger  in  her  eyes.  And,  in  the  end, 
as  he  had  planned,  she  consented  to  go  with  him. 
As  they  sat  at  one  of  Raphael's  small  tables  she 
confided  to  him  how  she  had  been  accosted  by  a 
strange  woman.  At  first  Leech  seemed  to  regard 
the  incident  as  not  worthy  of  attention;  but  on 
second  thoughts  he  warned  Elinor  not  to  see  the 
woman  again.  And  his  motive  in  doing  this  was 
by  no  means  a  disinterested  one,  for  so  clearly  and 
faithfully  had  Elinor  reported  the  conversation 
between  the  stranger  and  herself,  that  the  Assist- 
ant District  Attorney  could  not  fail  to  believe  that 
Elinor  had,  in  reality,  found  a  friend. 

"One  has  got  to  be  so  careful  here  in  New 


230        THE    RUNNINQ    FIGHT 

York  of  everybody,"  he  remarked  with  an  admir- 
able assumption  of  solicitude. 

But  true  to  her  promise,  the  woman  came  to  the 
Tombs  the  next  day.  And  on  seeing  Elinor  she 
came  quickly  toward  her  with  outstretched  hand; 
but  the  other  merely  shook  her  head  and  passed  on 
inside.  She  felt  independent  of  any  outside  aid 
now ;  for  the  attitude  of  Leech  was  most  encourag- 
ing. And  there  was  unusual  happiness  in  her 
look,  an  infectious  tone  in  her  laugh  as  she  said  to 
her  father: 

"  I  know  you'll  get  off  somehow." 

On  the  next  day  and  the  day  after  that,  Elinor 
noted  the  woman  still  waiting  at  her  post,  still 
hoping,  evidently,  that  Elinor  would  speak  to  her ; 
and  on  each  of  these  days  Giles  Ilingsworth  felt 
the  buoyancy  in  his  daughter's  manner. 

"You're  like  a  bit  of  sunshine  in  this  place," 
he  said. 

On  the  third  day,  at  sunset,  he  sent  for  the 
deputy. 

"  Deputy,"  said  the  old  man,  clutching  his  coat- 
sleeve  pitifully  through  the  bars,  "  I — my  daughter 
hasn't  been  here  to-day." 

"  I  know,"  answered  the  other.  "  I've  missed 
her,  too." 

"  She  must  be  ill,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Is  there 
any  way  of  finding  out?  I  have  some  money  with 
me  .  ." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        231 

They  sent  a  messenger  to  Elinor's  room ;  but  the 
messenger  returned  with  the  information  that  she 
was  not  in.  All  that  night  Ilingsworth  paced  his 
narrow  cell;  but  with  the  morning  sun  came  new 
hopes. 

"  She'll  be  here  to-day,"  he  assured  himself. 

But  she  didn't  come  that  day  either.  When  his 
meals  were  brought  to  him  he  refused  to  eat.  And 
again  all  that  night  he  paced  his  cell.  He  was  in- 
consolable. 

Five  more  days  passed  without  Ilingsworth  hav- 
ing received  word  from  his  daughter,  but  then, 
just  when  it  seemed  that  he  could  bear  the  sus- 
pense no  longer,  the  deputy  came  to  him  and  said : 

"There's  a  lady  downstairs  who  knows  your 
daughter.  She's  been  here  every  day,  came  just  to 
see  her.  She  wants  to  help — wants  her  address. 
Shall  I  give  it  to  her?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  eagerly. 

In  a  little  while  the  woman  returned  and  told 
the  deputy  that  Miss  Ilingsworth  had  moved,  had 
taken  all  her  things,  had  gone,  they  didn't  know 
where ;  and  the  warden  repeated  her  words  to  the 
poor  old  man  before  whom  lay  many  nights  yet 
of  sleeplessness  and  agony. 


XVI 

"  I  BELIEVE  I  once  remarked  to  you,  Mrs.  Peter 
V.,  that  I  needed  you,"  said  Flomerfelt,  his  fingers 
stealthily  groping  into  the  depth  of  his  sleeves  for 
his  cuffs,  and  when  they  were  arranged  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  added:  "to  manage  Peter  V.  It 
seems  that  I  was  mistaken." 

"And  you  don't  need  me?"  asked  Mrs.  Wil- 
kinson anxiously.  For  the  lady  feared  Flomerfelt, 
and  realised  that  he  was  a  dangerous  man.  In 
some  way  or  other  she  considered  him  responsible 
for  the  attempt  on  her  husband's  life,  which  ended 
in  the  killing  of  Roy  Pallister.  She  had  never  lost 
confidence  in  Flomerfelt's  ability  to  win  the  battle 
that  he  and  she  were  waging  against  her  husband. 
There  had  been  a  time,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
when  she  had  looked  up  to  and  admired  Wilkin- 
son, but  that  feeling  had  long  since  passed  off  and 
had  been  replaced  by  one  of  tolerance  and  fear. 
Now  she  despised  the  man — despised  him  the 
more  because  she  believed  that  Flomerfelt  would 
circumvent  him.  A  poor  judge  of  character,  as 
she  was — a  woman  whose  only  end  and  aim  in 
life  was  to  feed  her  own  desires — she  saw  nothing 
save  unsuccessful  clumsiness  in  Wilkinson's  move 
at  this  time,  and  had  naught  but  admiration  for 
Flomerfelt's  promised  finesse. 

232 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         233 

"You  do  need  me?"  she  asked,  taking  refuge 
in  tears.  And  she  was  rewarded  by  a  sudden  half- 
reluctant  change  in  his  manner,  for  he  said  sooth- 
ingly: 

"  I  suppose  I  do,  but  not  as  far  as  your  husband 
is  concerned.  Peter  V.,  in  or  out  of  prison,  is 
sewed  up,  done  up;  he's  in  our  hands.  Our  fight 
is  with  a  woman."  And  even  before  the  last  word 
was  spoken  he  noted  that  she  seemed  to  be  im- 
pressing upon  herself  the  possibility  of  such  a  con- 
tingency. "  I  suppose  you  know,"  he  went  on, 
"did  Peter  V.  tell  you  that  Leslie  had  refused 
Governor  Beekman  ?  " 

"  The  girl's  a  fool !  "  exclaimed  her  stepmother. 
"  If  she  halts  at  marrying  a  governor — I'd  marry 
Beekman — I'd  marry  any  governor  in  the  land! 
I've  been  all  wrong  in  thinking  that  money  will  do 
everything  in  New  York!  A  millionaire's  wife  is 
nobody,  unless  .  .  .  Now  if  I  were  a  statesman's 
wife,  they'd  have  to  recognise  me — I'd  show 
them!" 

"You  don't  suppose  that  she  wants  me,  do 
you?"  Flomerfelt  said,  putting  into  his  voice  as 
much  tenderness  as  he  dared. 

Mrs.  Peter  V.  shook  her  head,  laughing  scorn- 
fully in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,  we  can  make  her  like  you, 
when  I'm  through  liking  you  myself,"  she  replied. 

"You?"  scowled  Flomerfelt. 


234         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

The  woman  shivered  at  his  tone. 

"What  reason  does  she  give?"  she  asked, 
wisely  changing  the  subject. 

Then  Flomerfelt  went  on  to  explain  with  a  grim 
smile  what  he  thought  of  the  deep-laid  plans  of 
Colonel  Morehead,  the  schemes  of  Wilkinson  and 
how  they  had  all  gone  for  naught,  ending  with : 

"  She's  a  born  fighter,  that  Leslie,  and  it's  she 
that  we're  up  against,  and  not  Wilkinson.  Now 
the  sooner  Peter  V.  wins  his  fight,  the  better  for 
us;  but  this  minx  is  blocking  him,  though  I  admire 
her  for  it,  I  must  say." 

"We'll  make  her  marry  Beekman,"  declared 
Mrs.  Peter  V. 

The  woman's  confidence  in  her  own  powers 
brought  a  sarcastic  smile  to  his  lips. 

"  It  isn't  a  part  of  my  game  that  she  shall 
marry  him,"  he  argued.  "The  essential  thing  is 
that  she  shall  engage  herself  to  him.  I  say  that 
she  will  never  marry  him." 

"  But  Beekman  can't  be  put  out  of  the  way  as 
easily  as " 

"  There  has  been  too  much  blundering  already," 
said  Flomerfelt,  gloatingly,  for  the  look  of  fear 
in  her  eyes  had  not  escaped  him.  For  a  moment 
that  seemed  minutes  they  were  silent.  Finally 
Flomerfelt  announced:  "The  long  and  short  of 
it  is  that  I  don't  intend  that  this  Beekman  shall 
marry  her,  and  you've  got  to  help  me." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        235 

"Of  course,"  said  the  lady,  rejoicing  that  at 
last  her  services  would  be  brought  into  play. 
"But  how?  What  would  you  suggest ?" 

".  .  .  That  you  go  and  see  him  secretly,"  he 
told  her,  and  then  proceeded  to  unfold  his  plan  of 
what  she  should  say  to  him. 

"You'll  go  now?"  he  asked,  observing  the 
readiness  in  which  she  lent  herself  to  his  scheme, 
"  and  I'll  go  with  you,  that  is,  part  way." 

And  in  no  way  concerned  as  to  the  outcome  of 
her  dishonourable  action — so  confident  was  she  of 
Flomerfelt's  ability  to  carry  out  any  project  that 
he  might  undertake — Mrs.  Peter  V.,  without  the 
slightest  compunction,  swept  out  of  the  room  to 
make  ready  for  their  little  excursion  to  Beekman's 
apartments.  In  a  surprisingly  short  space  of  time 
she  came  back  arrayed  in  a  long  fur  motor-coat 
and  a  hat  perched  upon  her  head  with  a  rakishness 
that  she  thought  quite  smart,  but  which,  in  reality, 
had  not  the  remotest  chance  of  success  unless  worn 
by  a  very  young  and  pretty  girl.  And  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  her  eyes  were  over-bright,  as 
were  her  cheeks,  there  was  no  lack  of  self-satisfac- 
tion in  the  manner  in  which  she  carried  herself  as 
together  they  passed  out  through  the  entrance 
door,  stepped  into  her  limousine,  and  were  off. 

But  scarcely  had  the  limousine  passed  out  of 
sight  of  the  house  than  Jeffries  was  summoned  to 
the  door  once  more. 


236        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  It's  Mr.  Beekman  back  again,  Miss  Leslie," 
were  the  words  with  which  the  butler  interrupted 
Wilkinson's  insistence  that  Leslie  should  listen  to 
his  final  command;  "  and  he  says  that  he  must  see 
you  at  once." 

Wilkinson's  eyes  gleamed  as  he  snapped  out: 

"  See  him  again,  Leslie,  and  patch  things  up. 
Mind  you,  if  you  don't  take  him,  I'll  drag  you  to 
him  and  make  you." 

Frightened  lest  he  should  see  Beekman  before 
she  saw  him  herself,  for  she  realised  that  her 
father  was  desperate  for  some  unknown  reason 
and  quite  capable  of  carrying  out  his  threat,  Leslie 
swept  on  past  Jeffries  and  into  the  room  where 
Beekman  was  waiting,  his  eyes  bright  with  a  new 
hope. 

"  Idiot  that  I  was,  Leslie,"  he  began  breath- 
lessly, "  I  was  half  way  home  before  I  came  to  my 
senses.  Then  in  a  flash  I  saw  it  all — no,  you  can't 
fool  me  this  time.  The  whole  trouble  is  your 
father's  troubles.  Come,  confess !  " 

"  But  I've  already  confessed,"  she  said.  And 
so  she  had,  though  not  in  the  way  she  intended, 
for  her  eyes  told  the  story. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  no  uncertain  tread,  but 
rather  with  a  sudden  warmth  and  force  that 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  him,  body  and  soul, 
that  he  continued: 

"  Look  here,  little  one,  this  is  a  matter  between 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        237 

you  and  me  and  no  one  else.  You  must  consider 
no  one,  but  remember  only  that  I  represent  to  you 
the  one  man  in  all  the  world  for  you,  as  you  stand 
for  th.e  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me:  for  I 
love  you,  Leslie,  and  I  know  that  you  love  me." 

There  had  been  times  when  Eliot  Beekman  had 
stood  before  and  pleaded  with  reluctant  juries  and 
judges  whose  faces  were  dead  set  against  him,  but 
his  task  then  had  been  nothing  compared  with  the 
one  now.  And  yet  so  well  did  he  plead  his  case, 
that  when  he  had  finished  it  was  as  he  had  told 
her :  she  forgot  her  father's  sentence,  forgot  every- 
thing, except  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  he  was 
the  one  man  in  all  the  world  for  her. 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  confessed  to  him  in  a  whis- 
per; "I  believe  you  are  right.  Would  to  heaven 
that  you  had  given  me  the  chance  to  say  this  to 
you  months  ago." 

"You've  loved  me  all  the  time?"  he  asked,  his 
pulse  beating  fast. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  knew  that  you 
loved  me." 

The  next  instant  he  had  brought  out  the  ring 
which  she  had  refused  to  accept,  a  little  while  be- 
fore, and  holding  out  her  hand  impulsively  Leslie 
let  him  put  it  on. 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  she  looked  first  at 
the  ring  and  then  at  the  man  before  her,  the 
meaning  of  it  all  slowly  dawning  upon  her.  And 


238         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

then  in  some  sudden  outburst  of  rapture  she  let 
herself  be  held  in  his  arms  as  their  lips  met  in  one 
long  kiss.  In  that  moment  her  heart  went  out  to 
him,  and  she  knew  that  there  could  never  be  any- 
one else  for  her.  After  a  time  she  gently  drew 
herself  away  from  him,  and  said: 

"  My  senses  are  coming  back,  Eliot,  and  this 
surrender  is  only  on  one  condition,  which  is  that 
there  shall  be  no — no  wedding — until,  until  father 
is  cleared.  .  .  .  Of  course,  if  you  will  not  consent 
to  this,"  and  she  toyed  with  the  gem  that  sparkled 
on  her  finger,  "  then " 

"  Hold  on  there,  hold  on ! "  cried  Beekman. 
"  I'll  consent  to  anything  so  long  as  you're 
mine.  .  .  ." 

"All  over,  is  it,  Eliot?"  came  in  a  big  voice 
from  somewhere  behind  them. 

The  pair  of  lovers  sprang  apart  like  two  per- 
sons caught  in  the  act  of  concocting  some  con- 
spiracy. The  interloper  was  the  girl's  father. 

"  I  thought,"  went  on  Wilkinson,  more  gently 
now,  "  that  I'd  drop  in  before  the  news  went  over 
the  wire.  Leslie's  been  opening  up  her  heart  to 
me1 — letting  me  in  on  her  troubles,  and  I  agree 
with  her,  though  it's  your  own  affair,  of  course. 
I'd  keep  the  engagement  quiet,  for  the  present." 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  want;  in  fact  I  insist 
upon  it,"  said  Leslie,  tugging  at  the  ring  on  her 
finger. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         239 

Beekman  watched  her  struggles  in  alarm. 

"  I  consent  to  anything,  just  so  long  as  I  am 
sure  you're  mine,  that  you  belong  to  me,"  he  re- 
peated. 

Wilkinson  held  out  his  hand,  saying: 

"  I'll  make  myself  scarce  and  let  you  make  sure 
in  your  own  way  that  she  does  belong  to  you, 
Governor  Beekman.  Clinch  the  bargain,  my  boy; 
strike  while  the  iron's  hot;  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines." 

A  moment  more  and  Wilkinson  had  ambled  off 
to  smoke  another  black  cigar  and  to  pat  himself 
upon  the  back,  while  the  happy  pair,  heedful  of  his 
advice,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  music-room  pro- 
ceeded to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shone,  even 
though  without  the  November  storm  raged  above 
the  Hudson. 

It  was  a  night  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone 
for  them,  a  happy  memory  in  the  days  to  come. 
For  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  the  sun  for 
them  would  cease  to  shine,  when  the  storm  was  to 
rage  within  these  two  as  it  now  raged  without  the 
big  house  on  the  Drive, 


XVII 

ON  a  bright  snappy  morning  of  the  following 
Spring,  Governor  Beekman,  reaching  his  private 
room  in  the  Capitol  at  Albany  a  little  ahead  of 
time,  began  to  pace  slowly  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  open  windows.  A  wonderfully  pleasant 
place  the  world  seemed  to  him  now.  However 
much  his  ambition  might  grope  forward  in  the 
future,  the  present  was  eminently  satisfactory. 
All  his  struggles  seemed  to  lie  behind  him;  be- 
fore him  he  saw  power,  pleasant  ways,  and  Leslie 
Wilkinson. 

His  private  secretary,   on  time  to  the  minute, 
broke  in  on  his  thoughts. 

"This  came  in  last  night,  Governor,"  he  said, 
"  after  you'd  left.     I  read  it  over." 

"What  is  it?"   asked  the  Governor,   absent- 
mindedly. 

"  It's  a  petition  for  pardon,"  said  the  other 
casually,  handing  it  to  the  Governor. 

"  What's  the  conviction,"  asked  the  latter,  glanc- 
ing at  the  document. 

"  Murder  in  the  first  degree,"  was  the  answer. 
Beekman  frowned.     Out  of  many  applications  this 
was  the  first  he  had  received  in  a  murder  case. 

240 


THE    RUNNING     FIGHT         241 

"The  game  of  Governor  isn't  all  beer  and 
skittles,  is  it,  Phillips?" 

"  I'll  change  with  you  any  time  you  say,  Gover- 
nor," laughed  Phillips;  and  a  moment  later  he 
added:  "This  is  the  case  of  Giles  Ilingsworth." 

"And  who  is  Giles  Ilingsworth?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  that  Tri-State  Trust 
Company  affair?  The  vice-president  who  shot  a 
man  named  Pallister." 

"  Of  course,  Phillips,  now  I  remember  it  very 
well.  But  I  never  took  much  interest  in  his  case. 
Have  they  sent  the  record  up — the  printed  case  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  the  Hon.  Worth  Higgins,  of  New 
York,  is  waiting  to  see  you,  Governor  Beekman. 
He  came  up  yesterday — was  at  the  RemS'en  last 
night." 

"  So  he  was.  I  remember  now  seeing  him 
this  morning,  eating  breakfast.  I  thought  he 
looked  at  me  as  if  something  were  in  the  wind. 
Tell  him  to  come  in,  Phillips;  I'll  see  him  right 
away." 

Bearing  underneath  his  arm  a  printed  book,  the 
Hon.  Worth  Higgins  entered  the  arena  of  events 
with  his  accustomed  energy.  He  bowed  low  to 
the  Governor,  placed  a  high  silk  hat  on  the  Gov- 
ernor's table,  and  settled  down  into  a  seat. 

"  Have  you  read  my  petition?"  he  asked  of  the 
Governor. 

"  I  looked  at  it,"  replied  the  other.     "  You  have 


242         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

a  choice  assortment  of  names  upon  it — looks  all 
right."  ^ 

"  It  is  all  right,"  declared  Higgins,  "  I  can 
assure  you." 

"  I  have  just  fifteen  minutes,"  said  the  Gover- 
nor. "  I'll  take  this  matter  up  with  you  with 
pleasure.  Give  me  the  printed  case.  Now  point 
out  to  me — the  evidence  must  have  been  brief  on 
the  exact  point — the  testimony  relating  to  the 
crime.  Remember  I  don't  want  your  own  private 
opinion,  I  want  merely  the  salient  facts  of  the 
case."  And  after  glancing  quickly  over  the  pages 
that  Higgins  selected,  he  then  wandered  through 
the  testimony  on  his  own  account.  At  sight  of  the 
name  of  Leslie  Wilkinson  in  the  printed  index  of 
the  witnesses,  Governor  Beekman  was  conscious  of 
a  shock;  nevertheless  he  turned  to  her  testimony 
and  to  that  of  Wilkinson. 

"  Seems  to  have  been  deliberation  all  right,"  he 
remarked.  "  But  wasn't  there  a  gun  store  clerk 
upon  the  stand?  I  was  in  Austria  at  the  time,  and 
I  lost  track  of  this  case." 

Higgins,  his  countenance  falling,  pointed  out 
the  exact  testimony.  The  Governor  solemnly 
shook  his  head,  as  he  observed: 

"And  here,  Mr.  Higgins,  are  three  witnesses  in 
the  crowd  who  say  that  they  saw  him  fire  the  fatal 
shot.  What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  the  Hon.  Worth  Higgins,  his 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         243 

spirits  rising,  "  that  is  just  the  point.  If  you  will 
examine  the  cross-examination,  blundering  though 
it  be,  of  my  colleague  Boggs,  you  will  find  that 
those  three  witnesses  cannot  give  a  correct  account 
of  themselves.  They  were  not  depositors — that 
much  we  showed:  they  were  hangers-on  of  Mul- 
berry Bend  resorts." 

"These  three  men,"  returned  the  Governor, 
"  do  not  stand  impeached  by  Bbggs,  that  much  is 
sure;  and,  besides,  this  was  Ilingsworth's  gun. 
How  do  you  get  away  from  that?  " 

Now  Higgins,  be  it  known,  was  not  secretly  in 
sympathy  with  this  errand  of  his.  He  knew  in- 
stinctively that  his  mission  would  fail.  He  pre- 
ferred successful  missions,  and  consequently  he 
had  balked.  But  he  had  outlined  a  plan  whereby 
he  would  sit  down  before  the  Governor  and  make 
his  plea,  and  then  retire,  leaving  the  rest  to  fate. 
So  that  he  had  not  come  prepared  to  answer  vital 
questions,  and  they  annoyed  him.  Besides,  he 
knew  and  felt  that  Ilingsworth  had  been  convicted 
on  the  merits  of  the  case.  Appeals  had  failed; 
this  petition  to  the  Governor  was  a  last  resort. 
Nevertheless,  he  started  in  to  tell  the  Governor 
the  story  his  petition  set  forth — a  story  of  the 
wrongs  of  Ilingsworth. 

Governor  Beekman  listened  patiently  to  him  for 
a  few  minutes,  then  he  said: 

"  But  this  man  Ilingsworth  ran  away,  too,  didn't 


244        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

he?  In  my  mind  that  refutes  even  this  question 
of  quasi-insanity  that  you  set  up.  You  were  beaten 
on  insanity,  beaten  on  everything." 

Once  more  the  Governor  took  up  the  petition 
and  glanced  at  the  names  subscribed  on  it.  When 
he  came  to  the  name  of  Nathan  Ougheltree  of  the 
National  Banks,  he  smiled  and  said:  "  He  heads 
the  list."  And  running  his  finger  further  down 
the  long  line  of  names,  he  added  sardonically: 
"  Instead  of  being  People  vs.  Ilingsworth,  it  looks 
like  Ougheltree  against  Wilkinson — the  National 
Banks  against  the  Trust  Companies.  At  least  it 
does  to  me,  Mr.  Higgins;  how  does  it  look  to 
you?" 

The  Hon.  Worth  Higgins  flushed  to  his  eye- 
lids. 

"  My  dear  Governor,"  he  said  reprovingly,  "  a 
man's  life  is  at  stake." 

"  I  understand  that,  Counsellor,"  returned  the 
Governor.  "  I'm  just  trying  to  figure  out  just  how 
much  you  and  Ougheltree  care  about  the  man's 
life,  that's  all.  I'll  take  your  papers,"  he  went 
on,  "  and  have  no  fear,  I'll  go  over  this  thing 
carefully,  give  the  man  the  benefit  of  every  reason- 
able doubt,  and  that's  the  best  I  can  do." 

"  You'll  pardon  him,  Governor  Beekman,"  said 
Higgins,  placing  his  silk  hat  upon  his  head,  and 
lighting  a  cigar.  "You'll  pardon  him,  I  predict. 
Good-day!" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        245 

Higgins's  head  was  held  high  in  the  air  until  he 
left  the  room,  but  once  outside  he  conversed  de- 
jectedly with  his  own  inner  consciousness. 

'"  What  the  devil  did  Ougheltree  send  me  on  this 
fool  errand  for!"  he  protested.  "  Ilingsworth's 
done  for;  anyhow,  he's  served  our  purpose.  The 
Morning  Mail  has  had  him  for  a  weapon  against 
[Wilkinson  long  enough." 

On  Church  Street  he  stepped  into  a  telephone 
booth  and  called  up  Ougheltree  ifi  Manhattan. 

"  What  luck?  "  queried  the  National  Bank  man. 

At  his  end  of  the  line  Higgins  chuckled. 

"  You  can  lay  this  unction  to  your  soul,"  he  re- 
plied. "There's  no  hope.  Besides,"  uncon- 
sciously lowering  his  voice,  "  this  man  B.  is  Wil- 
kinson's man  from  top  to  toe.  I  did  what  I 
could." 

"Nobody  could  do  more,"  conceded  Oughel- 
tree at  the  other  end;  "let  it  go  at  that." 

No  sooner  was  the  interview  between  Higgins 
and  the  Governor  at  an  end  than  the  latter's 
private  secretary  tiptoed  his  way  back  into  the 
room,  and  remarked: 

"  You're  not  through  with  that  Ilingsworth  case 
yet.  Somebody  else  wants  to  see  you — a  woman, 
this  time." 

"His  wife,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Governor, 
wearily. 

Phillips  shook  his  head. 


246         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Ilingsworth  was  a  widower,"  he  explained. 

"  It  must  be  his  daughter,  then — he  has  a 
daughter,  so  it  seems,"  he  said,  tapping  the 
printed  case.  "  Doesn't  she  give  her  name?  No ? 
Well,  tell  her  to  come  in,  then." 

The  private  secretary  went  out  as  directed,  and 
a  moment  later  the  new  visitor  entered. 

In  a  glance  the  Governor  saw  that  although  she 
was  simply  and  poorly  clad,  she  was  a  woman  of 
great  beauty;  ari'd  presently  he  said: 

"You  are  Miss  Ilingsworth?" 

The  woman  turned  her  lustrous  dark  blue  eyes 
full  upon  him — eyes  full  of  sorrow,  full  of  appeal; 
they  troubled  the  Governor. 

"  I  am  not  Miss  Illingsworth,"  she  returned  in  a 
strong,  rich,  full  voice,  vibrant  with  pathos.  "  I 
have  no  card.  My  name  in  Madeline  Braine. 
I'm  a  saleswoman  in  Satterthwaite's  department 
store  in  New  York." 

The  Governor  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"  I  was  informed  that  you  had  received  the 
Ilingsworth  papers,"  she  began,  going  right  to 
the  point,  "  and  that  Mr.  Higgins  had  been  here 
to  see  you.  I  have  come  about  it,  too." 

The  Governor  drew  a  chair  forward  for  her; 
and  the  young  woman  leaning  across  a  table,  her 
figure  half-resting  lightly  upon  it,  her  slender  arm 
stretching  toward  him,  continued : 

"Yes,  I  have  come  to  plead  for  Giles  Ilings- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         247 

worth,  to  save  him  from "  She  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  for  an  instant  her  eyes  held  the  other's 
glance. 

"Who  sent  you  here?"  presently  asked  the 
Governor. 

"  I  came  of  my  own  accord,  sir." 

"You  are  not  allied  with  the  Ougheltree 
crowd?  "  he  asked,  and  his  eyes  narrowed. 

Madeline  Braine  opened  hers  wide. 

"What  Ougheltree  crowd?"  she  queried  in 
return. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said  a  bit  impatiently,  "  you 
must  know  what  I  mean.  I've  heard  all  about 
this  Ilingsworth  case.  It's  been  a  handle  in  the 
hands  of  a  lot  of  people  for  the  purpose  of  hound- 
ing Peter  V.  Wilkinson." 

"Peter  V.  Wilkinson,"  she  breathed,  a  sharp 
note  of  enmity  in  her  tone  that  the  Governor  rec- 
ognised for  the  thing  it  was. 

"Ah,  you  know  something  of  what  I  say?"  he 
said. 

"  I  have  heard,"  she  began. 

"Then  why  do  you  come  here?"  he  inter- 
rupted testily. 

Madeline  Braine  leaned  toward  him  a  bit  closer, 
persisting : 

"  Because  I  know  that  this  man  Ilingsworth  isn't 
guilty." 

"How  do  you  know  it? "  he  asked. 


248        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  just  know,"  she  replied  with  feminine  logic. 

"You  think  he  was  insane?  That  seems  to  be 
the  chief  argument  of  his  friends." 

"  He  isn't  guilty  of  the  murder,  that's  all,"  she 
declared,  her  eyes  glittering  for  an  instant. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how  you  know  this?" 
asked  the  Governor,  firmly.  He  was  fast  getting 
out  of  patience  with  her. 

'"  Because  I've  heard  him  tell  his  story,  and  I 
know  it's  true,"  she  insisted  stubbornly. 

"  But  twelve  men  heard  his  story,"  went  on  the 
Governor,  disturbed  out  of  his  gubernatorial 
dignity  by  her  evident  distress,  "  and  they  felt  it 
wasn't  true." 

"They  didn't  hear  it  as  I  heard  it,"  she  de- 
clared with  great  earnestness.  "You  ought  to 
hear  it  from  him — not  read  it.  Just  hear  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  see  his  face,  his  eyes!  You'd 
believe  him — you'd  know  it  was  true." 

The  Governor  was  interested,  not  only  at  her 
words,  but  at  her  forceful  manner;  moreover,  he 
was  attracted  not  a  little  by  the  young  woman's 
great  beauty.  Presently  he  asked: 

"  You  were  in  the  crowd  the  day  of  the  murder? 
Or  perhaps  you  know  someone  who  was?"  But 
both  these  questions  she  answered  negatively. 

The  Governor  was  puzzled.  Dealing  with  the 
Honourable  Worth  Higgins  had  been  an  easy  mat- 
ter compared  to  this.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         249 

wonderfully  convicing  stubbornness  about  the 
woman  that  disturbed  him. 

"You  think  he  had  a  fair  trial?"  he  asked, 
flirting  the  leaves  of  the  printed  case.  "  It  seems 
to  me  he  had." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  he  did  not.  .  .  ."  And 
then  she  went  on  to  give  her  reasons  why  she 
thought  this,  ending  with:  "The  three  witnesses 
out  of  the  crowd — the  three  men  who  were  pro- 
cured by  the  police,  and  who  swore  they  saw  Ilings- 
worth  fire  the  shot — those  men  lied." 

The  Governor  started. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  queer  that  Counsellor  Higgins 
should  have  harped  on  that  very  thing!  You've 
talked  to  Higgins  this  morning,  or  perhaps  some 
other  time,  about  this  case,  haven't  you?" 

"  I  have  talked  to  no  one,"  was  her  answer,  and, 
somehow,  the  Governor  felt  that  she  spoke  the 
truth. 

"  Leaving  out  the  question  of  those  three  men," 
he  went  on,  "  there's  enough  proof — the  gun,  the 
threats — to  have  convicted  him  on  circumstantial 
evidence." 

"  Another  reason  is,"  she  continued,  heedless  of 
his  remark,  "  that  the  influence  of  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson, and  especially,"  she  hesitated  for  an  in- 
stant, "the  testimony  of  Miss  Leslie  Wilkinson 
were  too  strong  in  the  case — too  much  importance 
was  attached  to  them." 


250        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

At  the  mention  of  Leslie's  name  the  Governor 
winced.  Not  so  much  because  of  her  connection 
with  the  case,  but  he  blamed  himself  for  permitting 
his  thoughts,  for  one  instant,  to  rest  on  this  woman 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  other. 

"Their  testimony,"  he  argued,  "was  entitled  to 
weight.  It  was  true;  and  it  established  these 
threats  ...  I  can't  see.  .  .  ." 

But  there  was  such  genuine  distress  and  anguish 
on  her  face,  and  she  seemed  to  be  advocating  such 
a  losing  cause  that  he  pitied  her,  and  was  wonder- 
ing just  how  he  could  assist  her,  when  suddenly 
she  leaned  closer  to  him,  her  breast  swelling,  heav- 
ing against  the  polished  surface  of  the  table ;  and 
placing  her  ungloved  hand  upon  his,  while  with 
the  other  she  pushed  towards  him  a  closely-writ- 
ten memorandum,  she  said  in  soft,  swelling 
tones : 

"  Governor  Beekman,  I  know  this  man  is  inno- 
cent. See  what  I  have  done:  This  is  a  list  of 
men  who  have  been  sent  to  death  by  juries,  courts 
of  appeals,  in  times  past — innocent  men,  like 
Ilingsworth,  condemned  by  the  world,  while  liv- 
ing, and  acquitted  only  when  it  was  too  late. 
This  man  Ilingsworth  is  not  guilty,  I  say,"  she 
concluded,  tightening  her  grasp  on  his  arm,  while 
her  gaze  held  his. 

The  Governor's  frame  thrilled  at  her  touch. 

"  I  would  not  say  this,  Governor  Beekman,"  she 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        251 

resumed,  still  holding  his  glance,  "  if  I  were  not 
desperate,  but  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  if  there's  anything  in  my  power  to  give,  I'll 
do  it  if  you  will  set  this  man  free." 

The  Governor  felt  the  warmth  of  her  hand 
through  his  sleeve,  yet  there  was  nothing  of  the 
temptress  in  her  touch,  but  rather  she  had  become 
a  desperate  woman,  the  apotheosis  of  self-sacrifice, 
a  Monna  Vanna,  stopping  at  nothing  to  gain  her 
virtuous  object. 

"  I  don't  know  you,"  she  went  on  softly,  with 
downcast  eyes,  "  but  if  there's  anything  about  me 
— do  with  me " 

Suddenly  she  stopped.  The  door  had  opened, 
and  a  girl  stood  framed  in  the  doorway.  But  al- 
though the  Governor  paled  perceptibly,  he  did  not 
move.  After  a  moment  the  woman  removed  her 
hand  from  his  arm,  quietly  rose  and  stood  facing 
the  girl  who  had  entered. 

"  Governor  Beekman,"  she  said,  now  turning  to 
him,  her  face  still  appealing  in  its  pathos,  her  arms 
half  stretched  toward  him,  u  I'm  coming  here 
every  day,  whether  you  will  see  me  or  not.  I'm 
coming  until  you  consent  to  see  this  man  Ilings- 
worth  and  hear  from  him  the  truth.  You  must 
see  him,  you  must  hear  his  story  from  his  lips," 
she  concluded,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"  I  will  say  to  you  precisely  what  I  told  Mr. 
Higgins,"  he  replied,  taking  her  hand  and  bowing 


252        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

gravely  over  it.  "  I  shall  consider  this  matter 
fully  and  faithfully,  and  shall  give  Giles  Ilings- 
worth  the  benefit  of  every  reasonable  doubt." 

When  the  woman  had  finally  gone,  Leslie  came 
forward  laughing,  but  with  just  enough  nervous- 
ness showing  in  her  laugh  to  startle  Beekman,  and 
remarked : 

"  Take  care,  take  care,  Eliot,  some  of  them  will 
get  you  if  you  don't  watch  out!  " 

By  this  time  the  Governor  had  thrown  off  the 
subtle  influence  of  the  woman,  and  smiling,  too,  he 
answered: 

"  Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it,  Leslie,"  and  pro- 
ceeded to  do  so,  despite  her  protests  that  she 
didn't  care  to  hear  it.  During  his  recital,  how- 
ever, she  broke  in  with : 

"  She's  awfully  attractive,  Eliot,  to  say  the 
least!" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Leslie,"  he  laughed, 
"  I'm  not  quite  sure  how  far  her  influence  upon 
me  is  going  to  go." 

"  Surely  you  don't  mean "  began  Leslie,  but 

Beekman  joined  in  quickly,  soberly,  honestly  say- 
ing: 

"Just  this:  that  if  she  persists,  it  may  result  in 
my  seeing  Giles  Ilingsworth." 

"Oh!"  The  interjection  plainly  showing  her 
relief.  But  a  moment  more  and  she  had  recalled 
Colonel  Morehead's  warnings  that  under  no  cir- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        253 

cumstances  was  Beekman  to  be  permitted  to  hear 
Ilingsworth's  story  from  his  own  lips. 

Immediately,  therefore,  to  Beekman's  surprise, 
the  reserve  that  had  marked  her  manner  dissolved, 
and  she  cried: 

"Eliot,  don't  see  him!  Please  don't  see  him, 
Eliot!" 

"But  why  not?"  he  inquired,  smiling. 

"  Because  I  don't  want  you  to,"  she  told  him. 

"Leslie!  Surely  you're  not  trying  to  pit  your 
influence  against  hers  ?  What  ?  "  he  said,  his  smile 
changing  to  an  expression  of  slight  annoyance. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  replied.  "  It's  something 
else." 

"Why,  then?" 

"  That's  the  trouble — I  don't  know.  Only,  he 
was,  is  still,  my  father's  enemy.  Oh,  I  have  seen 
his  fury — he  mean't  murder — he  did  mur- 
der. ..." 

"  It  is  because  the  case  is  a  murder  case,"  ex- 
plained the  Governor,  "that  it  troubles  me.  It's 
the  first  murder  case  since  my  election,  and  really, 
I  don't  know — I  can't  promise  anything  now." 

Madeline  Braine  lived  up  to  her  promises.  Day 
after  day  for  a  week  she  had  waited  persistently 
in  the  Governor's  ante-room,  buoyed  up  with  the 
hope  that  eventually  he  would  accede  to  her 
wishes.  At  last  her  patience  was  rewarded:  for 


254         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

the  Governor,  passing  through  the  room  where 
she  waited,  suddenly  announced  to  his  private 
secretary  that  he  would  consent  to  an  interview 
with  Ilingsworth  the  following  day  at  noon.  And 
turning  to  the  woman,  he  added: 

"  I  want  you  here,  Miss  Braine,  too." 

Phillips,  the  Governor's  private  secretary, 
frowned  to  himself.  Unknown  to  the  Governor, 
he  was  one  of  Wilkinson's  most  faithful  men — 
placed  at  the  Governor's  side  apparently  by  the 
Governor's  untrammelled  choice — but  actually 
forced  upon  him  without  his  own  knowledge. 

"  I  don't  like  this  a  little  bit,"  thought  Phillips 
to  himself.  "It  looks  bad,  bad.  ..." 

The  following  day  punctually  at  noon,  in  obe- 
dience to  the  mandate  of  the  Governor,  three 
men  marched  into  the  waiting-room  at  the  Capitol. 
Two  were  men  in  uniform;  one  in  civilian's  dress. 

"You  can  go  right  in,"  said  the  secretary, 
nodding  to  them.  And  passing  into  the  Gover- 
nor's private  office  they  found  him  at  his  desk, 
signing  some  papers.  In  a  corner  sat  Miss  Made- 
line Braine.  One  of  the  uniformed  officers  stood 
at  attention,  waiting  until  the  Governor  should 
look  up. 

"This  is  Giles  Ilingsworth,  sir,"  he  said  at 
length. 

Instantly  the  Governor  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  prisoner — a  man  whose  hair  was 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         255 

turning  grey,  whose  aspect  was  pathetically  hope- 
less. And  steeling  himself  against  the  sight — 
for  it  was  within  the  range  of  possibility  that  all 
murderers  looked  this  way,  guilty  or  not, — he  or- 
dered him  to  sit  down,  and  pointing  to  a  seat,  he 
added: 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,  take  this  chair,  please." 

The  chair  had  been  placed  so  that  the  light  shone 
full  upon  the  face  of  the  condemned  man.  And 
the  instant  that  Ilingsworth  had  seated  himself, 
some  new  expression  crossed  the  face  of  the  Gov- 
ernor as  unconsciously  he  placed  his  hand  against 
his  forehead.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  had  re- 
moved it,  and  his  glance  went  from  Ilingsworth 
to  the  young  woman  sitting  in  the  corner,  at  the 
same  time  motioning  to  her  to  come  forward. 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  he  began  gently,  "  the  fact 
that  I  have  consented  to  see  you  is  due  to  your 
friend,  Miss  Madeline  Braine." 

The  prisoner  turned  an  expressionless  counte- 
nance toward  the  girl. 

"  My  friend,  Miss  Madeline  Braine ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, his  hand,  too,  creeping  along  his  own 
forehead.  "  I  have  no  friend  of  the  name 
Braine." 

"  You  may  not  know  her  by  that  name,  but  this 
is  the  lady,"  said  the  Governor. 

Giles  Ilingsworth  stared  hard  at  her;  the  next 
instant  he  announced: 


256        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

'"  I  don't  know  this  lady,  sir." 

The  Governor  was  startled  afresh. 

"You  don't  know  her?  Why,  she's  been  plead- 
ing for  you  for  days." 

Ilingsworth  smiled  gratefully,  murmuring: 

"  Some  young  newspaper  woman,  I  suppose.  I 
thank  her  for  it." 

The  Governor  shook  his  head. 

"  She's  not  a  newspaper  woman — I  know  that," 
he  returned.  "I  mistook  her  for  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Giles  Ilingsworth  struggled  wildly  to  his  feet, 
and  brushing  his  hair  roughly  from  his  forehead 
as  he  leaned  over  the  Governor's  desk  and  looked 
him  full  in  the  eye,  he  cried: 

"My  daughter!     My  daughter " 

"Stop!"  ordered  the  Governor  in  commanding 
tones,  the  puzzled  look  on  his  face  giving  way  to 
one  of  recognition,  relief. 

"  I've  placed  you  now — yes,  by  Jove,  I'm  right 
— I  know  you !  "  He  laughed  with  the  surprise 
of  it  all. 

Ilingsworth  continued  to  stare  vacantly  into 
space. 

"  *  And  the  rest  by  the  names  underneath,' ' 
quoted  the  Governor,  touching  him  on  the  arm, 
as  though  to  arouse  him. 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  working  his 
fingers  convulsively  through  his  hair. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         257 

"  Listen  to  this !  "  And  the  Governor  recited 
with  almost  boyish  glee: 

" '  I  recognise  Dante  because  he's  tab-eared, 
And  Virgil  I  know  by  his  wreath, 
Old  Homer  I  tell  by  his  rough  shaggy  beard — 
And  the  rest  by  the  names  underneath.1 

"Don't  you  remember  it?"  he  added,  when  he 
had  finished  the  verse. 

Ilingsworth's  face  lighted  up. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  cried,  "  it's  my  favourite. 
Where  did  you  hear  it?" 

"  From  your  own  lips,"  replied  the  Governor. 
"And  at  the  same  time  you  showed  me  that," — 
and  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  spot  where 
the  old  man  had  brushed  away  his  hair  from  his 
forehead — "  the  Heidelberg  scar  upon  your  head. 
And  you  were  reading  Dante  at  the  time." 

Ilingsworth  pulled  a  thumb-worn  volume  out 
of  his  pocket. 

"  I've  that  copy  of  the  Inferno  yet,"  he  mur- 
mured sadly.  "  It  keeps  reminding  me.  .  .  . 
My  daughter " — he  peered  uncertainly  at  the 
Governor.  "  I'm  curious  to  know,  sir,  when  I 
met  you.  I  can't  seem  to  place  you." 

"  But  I  remember  you  very  well  indeed,"  re- 
joined the  Governor.  "  I  rode  with  you  all  day 
long  to  Buffalo,  some  months  ago.  We  were  on 
the  Empire  State  Express  together." 


258         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Buffalo  ?  "  said  Ilingsworth.  "  I  never  went 
to  Buffalo." 

'"  Oh,  yes,  you  did,"  persisted  the  Governor; 
and  drawing  from  his  breast-pocket  a  diary  he 
turned  over  the  leaves  rapidly  until  he  came 
to  a  certain  page.  "Yes,  you  went  to  Buffalo 
on  the  27th  day  of  April,  190 — that's  the 
date." 

"  I  can't  seem  to  remember  it,"  was  all  that 
Ilingsworth  said;  but  at  that  moment  a  figure 
sprang  towards  the  Governor,  and  a  voice  cried 
in  his  ear: 

"The  date — what  was  that  date?  The  twenty- 
seventh  day  of  what?" 

"April." 

"Please  repeat  it." 

The  Governor  repeated  it. 

"Are  you  absolutely  sure?"  she  cried. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered.    "  Why?  " 

"And  you  say  you  took  the  Empire  State  Ex- 
press?" demanded  Madeline  Braine,  almost  be- 
side herself  with  excitement.  "What  time  does 
it  leave  in  the  morning?" 

"  It  leaves  always  at  the  same  time — eight-thirty 
in  the  morning." 

"It  was  an  all-day  ride?" 

"Yes." 

"And  Giles  Ilingsworth  was  near  you  all  the 
way?  You're  sure  that  you  were  with  him  on  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         259 

Empire  State  Express  at  eleven  o'clock — eleven 
in  the  morning  that  day?" 

"  Surely  I  was!" 

Madeline  Braine  offered  up  a  silent  prayer. 

"  I  knew,  I  knew,"  she  cried,  "  that  there  must 
be  some  way  out  of  this !  Giles  Ilingsworth  was 
miles  away  at  the  time  when  Pallister  was  killed ! 
The  murder  took  place  on  April  2yth  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  the  very  instant  when 
you  and  he  were  riding  to  Buffalo  as  fast  as  steam 
could  carry  you !  You " 

She  sank  into  her  chair  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"  I  told  you  he  was  innocent,"  she  said,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

There  was  a  tense  moment  in  which  Governor 
Beekman,  the  prisoner  and  the  two  officers  stood 
staring  at  each  other  in  speechless  amazement. 

"  Can  it  be  possible  .  .  .  1 "  exclaimed  the 
Governor  at  length,  and  again  he  consulted  his 
diary.  All  of  a  sudden  something  else  on  the  page 
that  he  was  looking  at  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
cried  out: 

"  It  was  at  six  o'clock  that  evening  in  the  Iro- 
quois  that  I  read  the  murder  in  the  papers.  It 
was  that  day — it  was.  ..."  And  a  moment 
later  he  was  at  his  desk  rapidly  leafing  over  the 
printed  case  for  the  date  of  the  commission  of  the 
crime. 


260        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

There  was  no  mistake  about  it.  Every  witness 
had  it  pat.  Repeatedly  in  his  opening  address 
and  in  his  summing  up  the  District  Attorney  had 
referred  to  it;  three  times  it  appeared  in  the 
Court's  charge  to  the  jury. 

"  Phillips,"  he  directed,  when  his  secretary  ap- 
peared, "call  up  my  office  in  New  York;  call  up 
the  District  Attorney's  office  in  New  York;  and 
call  up  the  Bank  Le  Boeuf  in  Buffalo.  Get  them 
right  away,  please." 

The  calls  were  answered  quickly.  Once  the 
people  at  the  other  end  knew  the  Governor  of 
New  York  was  on  the  wire,  everything  was  put 
aside  to  do  his  bidding;  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour 
the  Governor  sank  back  into  his  chair  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction. 

"There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  about  it,"  he 
told  them.  "At  the  very  time  the  shot  was  fired 
in  Lafayette  Street,  New  York,  this  man  was  with 
me  miles  away  from  the  spot."  He  looked  at 
the  officers  significantly.  "When  was  he  to 

be "  He  broke  off,  shuddering  at  the  thought 

of  the  man's  narrow  escape. 

"  Next  week  Thursday,"  came  from  the  officers. 

Beekman  thought  for  some  time.  Finally  he 
said: 

"I'll  grant  him  a  reprieve  for  a  month.  It 
may  take  a  week  to  verify  the  facts." 

When  the  prisoner  had  been  led  away,  the  Gov- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         261 

ernor  turned  to  Madeline  Braine,  and  said  with 
great  feeling: 

"  Miss  Braine,  I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  I 
can  never  repay.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  would 
have  sent  this  man  to  his  doom — and  one  of  these 
days,  when  it  was  too  late,  I  would  have  found 
it  out,  and  then.  ..."  His  finger-nails  bit  into 
his  palms.  "You've  saved  me  from  the  Inferno 
that  he  harps  upon." 

But  much  to  the  Governor's  surprise,  the  woman 
before  him  seemed  to  receive  this  remark  list- 
lessly. An  unaccountable  depression  was  upon 
her;  there  was  no  fire  in  her  eyes;  and  the  hand 
that  she  gave  to  him  was  cold  as  ice.  Yet,  in- 
stinctively he  felt  that  she  must  be  grateful. 

"  If  I  can  ever  be  of  service  " — she  murmured. 
But  Beekman  interrupted  her. 

"  Pardon  me,  it  is  I  who  wish  to  be  of  some 
service  to  you.  But  will  you  tell  me,"  he  asked, 
another  thought  coming  into  his  mind,  "how  it 
was  that  you  didn't  know  Ilingsworth,  and  that 
he  didn't  know  you  ?  How  do  you  account  for  it, 
Miss  Braine?" 

"  I  think  this  day  has  taught  us  that  there  are 
many  unaccountable  things  in  life,  hasn't  it,  Gov- 
ernor?" 

And  the  Governor,  when  once  more  seated  alone 
at  his  desk,  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  it  had. 


262         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Governor  Beekman  was  still  at  his  desk  going 
over  some  papers  when  Phillips,  some  time  later, 
came  in  and  handed  him  a  telegram,  saying: 

"  It's  in  cipher,  sir." 

"Cipher!"  said  the  other.  "Why  cipher?  I 
have  no  code  with  anybody.  Can  you  read  it?" 

"  It  says  '  Coal  gone  to1  $6.50  retail.' "  And 
passing  it  over,  added:  "It's  signed,  M.  X. 
Y.  Z." 

"And  you  say  that's  a  cipher?"  asked  the  Gov- 
ernor. 

"  Yes.  The  X.  Y.  Z.  means  the  X.  Y.  Z.  Code, 
apparently,"  explained  Phillips,  glibly.  "  I  have 
the  A.  B.  C.  and  the  X.  Y.  Z.  in  my  desk.  I 
translated  it  while  you  were  busy.  It  means  this : 
'  Court  has  affirmed  Wilkinson  conviction.  More- 
head.'  " 

Governor  Beekman  started  with  genuine  anxiety. 

"The  deuce  you  say!  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  to 
hear  that,"  he  said;  but  Phillips  only  smiled — a 
smile  that  the  Governor  did  not  see.  "  I  can't 
understand  why  they  affirm  that  conviction,  I 
can't — I  can't  .  ..."  he  kept  saying  to  him- 
self. Then  aloud  to  his  secretary:  "Get  me  a 
copy  of  that  opinion,  will  you,  Phillips?  I  want 
to  see  it,  word  for  word." 

And  it  was  with  considerable  satisfaction  that 
the  private  secretary  observed,  as  he  left  the 
room,  that  the  Governor  was  nervously  pacing 
to  and  fro. 


XVIII 

IN  Colonel  Morehead's  office  at  120  Broadway, 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson  sat  at  the  window  reading  a 
typewritten  document  of  considerable  length.  He 
was  white  and  rigid;  while  Leslie,  standing  be- 
side him,  rested  her  arm  upon  his  shoulder.  As 
he  read  he  stirred  uneasily,  even  his  daughter's 
hand  felt  heavy  upon  him,  and  he  shrugged  it 
off. 

"By  all  the  gods!"  he  groaned  from  time  to 
time;  "those  chaps  have  nerve  to  say  such  things 
about  me ! " 

"  They  seem  to  have  the  right,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel, suppressing  a  chuckle,  "  and  I  suppose  we 
can't  complain." 

When  Peter  V.  had  finished  reading  the  opinion, 
he  wiped  his  face  with  his  kerchief — the  perspi- 
ration had  started  from  every  pore. 

"That's  the  last  crack,  I  suppose,  Morehead," 
he  ventured. 

Morehead  did  not  immediately  answer,  but 
turned  to  Leslie  and  said: 

"There's  a  new  Inness  in  the  next  room  that 

I  picked  up  at  a  bargain.  Would  you  like " 

And  without  waiting  for  her  answer  the  Colonel 

263 


264         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

led  the  way  to  an  adjoining  room,  where  he 
pointed  out  briefly  to  her  the  artistic  features  of 
his  new  acquisition,  and  leaving  her  to  admire  it, 
he  came  back,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"  Peter,"  he  said  softly,  "  how  much  money 
have  you  squandered  on  this  business  in  the  last 
year — since  you  were  indicted,  convicted  and  so 
forth.  I  mean  outside  of  what  you  haven't  paid 
me  and  of  what  I  know  about?" 

Wilkinson  grunted  in  disgust. 

"Ten,  I  should  say." 

"Millions?" 

His  client  fumed  and  nodded. 

Morehead  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  which 
included  the  other. 

"  Didn't  I  warn  you,  Peter,  that  it  would  be  of 
no  use?  That  at  the  end  of  the  race  you'd  find 
yourself  with  a  ten-years'  sentence  staring  you  in 
the  face.  You  might  have  saved  your  money,  or 
given  it  to  me,  preferably  the  latter  course." 

"  Oh,  come,  Morehead,  what's  the  use  of  these 
post  mortems  of  yours !  Let's  get  to  work.  How 
much  time  have  we  got?" 

"  I  can  get  a  few  certificates  of  reasonable  doubt 
— that  part's  all  right — run  it  along  for  months 
yet.  We've  got  to  concede,  however,  that  they 
shoved  it  along  mighty  quick.  What  I'm  trying 
to  figure  out  is  whether  we  hadn't  better  apply  to 
Beekman  now — strike  while  the  iron's  hot.  For 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         265 

that  opinion  will  make  him  mad,  and  if  so,  now 
is  our  time.   ..." 

"Sure  it's  our  time,  Colonel;  let's  do  it  right 
away." 

Morehead  slipped  into  the  next  room  and  ad- 
justed the  window-shade. 

'  The  light  is  a  little  better,  now,  Miss  Leslie. 
I  want  you  to  like  that  picture.  If  you  like  it  well 
enough,  maybe  I'll  give  it  to  you  one  of  these 
days.  ..." 

Leslie  smiled  her  gratitude,  glancing  anxiously 
at  the  same  time  into  the  next  room. 

"  Can  I  go  back  to  father  now?"  she  asked. 

"  Of  course,  I  came  to  get  you,"  said  Colonel 
Morehead;  and  when  they  were  back  in  the  room 
in  which  her  father  waited,  the  Colonel,  lounging 
easily  in  his  seat,  went  on  to  confide  to  her  the 
fact  that  her  father  was  at  last  in  desperate 
straits;  that  this  opinion  constituted  his  last  chance 
with  the  courts. 

"  Your  father  and  I  have  been  talking  it  over," 
he  said  in  a  tone  of  finality;  "and  the  hand  of 
the  National  Banks  sticks  up  like  a  sore  finger  all 
through  the  case.  It's  an  outrage!  We've  de- 
cided that  this  is  the  proper  time  and  the  proper 
case  to  present  to  Governor  Beekman  for  pardon. 
What  do  you  think.  .  .  .  ?  " 

At  first,  while  Morehead  was  explaining,  as 
well  as  he  knew  how,  the  unpleasant  situation  that 


266         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

her  father  was  in,  Leslie  had  half-risen  in  her 
chair,  her  face  growing  white ;  but  at  the  lawyer's 
concluding  words  her  colour  came  back. 

"  Why,  I — I  never  thought  of  that !  "  she  cried 
out,  her  troubles  slipping  from  her  suddenly. 

Colonel  Morehead  smiled  at  her  until  she  low- 
ered her  eyes  in  confusion.  Afterwards  he  deigned 
to  explain  that  neither  had  they  until  just  now. 

'"Providence,"  put  in  Wilkinson,  winking  at 
Colonel  Morehead,  "  seems  to  be  on  our  side — 
the  appellate  courts  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing." 

"The  right  shall  prevail,"  quoth  Morehead, 
unblushingly. 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  exclaimed  Leslie,  "  that  none 
of  us  ever  thought  of  this  before!  " 

Leslie  thought  of  it  a  good  deal  afterwards, 
however,  and  the  very  next  day  in  the  Mastodon 
car  she  canvassed  in  person  practically  every  house 
upon  the  Drive  and  over  on  Fifth  Avenue  to  get 
the  list  of  signatures  that  the  Colonel  wished  her 
to  obtain. 

"This  has  got  to  be  done  right,  Miss  Leslie," 
he  impressed  upon  her.  "  For  when  Eliot  pardons 
your  father,  remember  that  he's  got  to  show  why 
he  does  it,  and  upon  whose  petition." 

"You  mean" — she  faltered,  "that  he  may  be 
criticised?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         267 

"  It's  quite  possible,  my  dear.  The  Morning 
Mail,  for  instance,  will  doubtless  roast  him  from 
here  to  Gehenna  and  back  again." 

Leslie's  smile  of  girlish  confidence  returned. 

"Eliot  won't  mind,"  she  said.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve he  cares  much  about  anything  except  me. 
He'll  do  right  by  us  no  matter  what  happens,  I 
feel  sure  of  that." 

"And  I  think,"  suggested  the  Colonel,  "that 
when  we  hand  in  our  petitions,  we'll  all  go  up  to- 
gether." 

"  Leslie  laughed  in  sheer  delight. 

"Of  course  we'll  all  go  up  together,"  she  re- 
turned. "  Our  march  to  victory." 

"That  man  Ilingsworth  is  here  again,"  Phil- 
lips told  the  Governor,  somewhat  reluctantly;: 
"  and  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Show  him  in,"  briskly  returned  his  chief.  "  I'll 
be  delighted  to  see  him." 

Ilingsworth  came  in  slowly,  dejectedly,  alone. 
No  guard  was  with  him ;  the  air  he  breathed  was 
free  air,  and  yet  there  were  no  signs  of  content- 
ment. 

"  I  didn't  come  exactly  to  thank  you,  Gover- 
nor," he  said  uneasily.  "  I  did  that  in  my  letter 
when  they  told  me  of  my  pardon.  I  came  to  you 
because  in  all  my  life  you  are  the  only  man  who 


268        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ever  really  helped  me — for  it  seems  to  have  been 
the  mission  of  other  men  to  drag  me  down.  I 
have  come  for  help  once  more." 

"  I  want  to  help  you,  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  volun- 
teered the  Governor.  "What's  the  trouble?  Is 
it — money?" 

Ilingsworth  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  it  is  not  money.  ..."  He  paused  and 
looked  about  him  uncertainly,  murmuring  to  him- 
self: "What  is  it  that  I  want?" 

Beekman  touched  him  kindly. 

"You  seem  to  lose  yourself  at  times,"  he  re- 
marked. "  For  instance,  you  didn't  remember  that 
trip  to  Buffalo." 

"  That's  the  only  time  I  ever  lost  myself,  I 
guess,"  was  his  answer.  "  If  I  hadn't  lost  my- 
self then,  I  suppose  I  could  have  proved  an  alibi. 
I  couldn't  account  for  myself  upon  my  trial,  and 
nobody  who  knew  me  had  seen  me  for  a  few 
days.  I  must  have  knocked  about  Buffalo  and 
come  back." 

"  You  were  looking  for  a  farm." 

"Yes,  you  told  me  that.  It  comes  back  to  me 
now.  And  there  was  a  farm,  but  it's  all  very 
vague — a  farm  some  years  ago  somewhere  up 
there.  I  had  the  notion  to  find  it  and  to  live  on 

it — just  myself  and "  he  broke  off  abruptly, 

and  there  was  a  new  light  in  his  eyes  and  a  world 
of  pathos  in  the  voice  that  said:  "  It's  my  daugh- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        269 

ter  that  I  want  to  see  you  about.  I  want  to  find 
her.  Can't  you  help  me  to  find  her?" 

"Don't  you  know  where  she  is?" 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  for,  oh,  so  long — so  long. 
When  they  put  me  away  she  would  come  to  the 
Tombs — twice  she  came  up  the  River  to  see  me. 
But  the  last  time  there  was  something  in  her  face 
I  couldn't  understand,  then  she  never  came  again, 
and  I  knew  they'd  got  her.  For  she  had  to  get 
along,  somehow,  and  she  didn't  dare  to  face  me. 
Poor  girl,  there  was  no  one  to  care  for  her — see 
to  her!"  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  flaring  up 
out  of  his  downcast  demeanour,  he  cried: 

"  Curse  them !  Curse  that  man  Wilkinson — all 
of  them!  First  they  robbed  me  of  my  money, 
then  they  got  me,  and  now  they've  got  her !  " 

The  Governor's  eyes  narrowed. 

"What  has  Wilkinson  to  do  with  it?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  Ilingsworth  burst 
out  excitedly.  "  Doesn't  everybody  know  ?  Didn't 
you  read  my  testimony  at  the  trial?" 

"  Only  hurriedly,"  acknowledged  the  Governor. 
"  What  I  wanted  to  read  first  was  the  case  made 
against  you.  I  read  your  own  denial — but  as 
for  the  rest,  well,  you  were  rambling,  somewhat 
incoherent.  I  didn't  understand  it — in  fact  I 
hardly  read  it  all." 

Ilingsworth  dragged  up  a  chair. 


270         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  all  about  it?  " 

Governor  Beekman  let  him  tell  his  story.  And 
scarcely  had  the  last  words  of  Ilingsworth's  re- 
cital of  his  wrongs  left  his  lips  than  Phillips,  en- 
tering, announced: 

"  Colonel  Morehead  and  some  friends  to  see 
you,  sir ! " 

"  Bring  them  right  in !  "  exclaimed  the  Gover- 
nor, at  once  rising  and  going  with  a  smile  to  meet 
them.  Suddenly  he  remembered  Ilingsworth  and 
started  to  escort  that  gentleman  out  of  another 
entrance. 

"  But  my  daughter,"  mumbled  Ilingsworth  as 
with  bowed  head  he  followed  the  Governor.  "  If 
I  can't  have  her  back  again,  why,  what's  the  good 
of  a  pardon?  I  must  have  help  to  find  her."  At 
the  door  something  impelled  him  to  pause,  and 
looking  back  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson. 

"  That's  the  man — there — the  man  that  got  my 
money — that's  got  my  daughter!  No  matter 
where  she  is,  he's  responsible !  Look  at  him ! 
Look  at  his  face !  I  don't  have  to  tell  you.  .  .  . " 

But  the  Governor,  startled  by  this  outburst  and 
intent  upon  getting  rid  of  his  visitor,  did  not  turn, 
and  consequently  he  did  not  see  the  face  of  Wil- 
kinson blanche  and  twitch  under  the  accusing  fore- 
finger of  his  old  vice-president,  Giles  Ilingsworth. 
'  "  I'll  help  you  find  your  daughter,  sir,"  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         271 

Governor  promised,  taking  the  man  by  the  arm; 
"  I'll  help  you  all  I  can." 

"  Poor  chap,"  said  he,  returning,  and  shaking 
hands  with  his  guests,  "  seems  to  have  it  in  for 
you,  Mr.  Wilkinson." 

"  I  don't  blame  him  having  it  in  for  somebody," 
spoke  up  Leslie.  "  It  is  not  his  innocence  or  guilt 
that  interests  me,  but  his  daughter.  I  saw  her 
picture  once — saw  her  twice,"  she  went  on  wist- 
fully. "  How  I  '  wish  that  I  might  help 
him.  .  ,  ." 

Colonel  Morehead,  tucking  the  Ilingsworth  inci- 
dent into1  the  back  of  his  head  for  future  use, 
laid  down  a  batch  of  papers  and  his  printed  case 
upon  the  Governor's  desk. 

"  Governor — Eliot,"  he  remarked  jovially, 
"  the  New  York  Reporter  and  the  Star  call  you  the 
pardoning  Governor." 

"  Yes.  They  rapped  me  hard,  didn't  they,"  he 
said,  all  unconscious  that  they  were  Wilkinson's 
own  papers.  "But  what  could  I  do?  The  man 
Ilingsworth  was  innocent — I  knew  he  was  inno- 
cent." 

"Oh,  they  didn't  hit  you  very  hard — just  a 
little  dig  in  the  short  ribs — friendly  little  scrap, 
don't  you  know,"  said  Morehead,  soothingly. 
"  But  the  Morning  Mail  made  up  for  it,  my  boy. 
They'll  stick  to  you  through  thick  and  thin,  and 
don't  you  forget  it.  It  won't  hurt  you.  Ouglrel- 


272        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

tree's  backing  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at  by  any  man. 
But  what  I  started  in  to  say,  Eliot,  was,  that  since 
you're  the  pardoning  Governor,  so-called,  why, 
we've  got  a  little  bone  to  pick  with  you — a  peti- 
tion— or  petitions,  rather,  in  the  case  of  the  Peo- 
ple versus  Wilkinson." 

Colonel  Morehead  handed  up  his  bunch  of  pa- 
pers, Leslie  following  suit,  as  she  said  with  a  little 
smile : 

"My  contribution,  Governor." 

"A  bit  stiff,  that  U.  S.  Supreme  decision,"  said 
the  Governor,  taking  them,  and  looking  at 
Wilkinson.  "  It  seemed  to  me  unnecessarily 
rough." 

Wilkinson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  With  the  National  Banks  against  me,  how  can 
the  U.  S.  courts  be  for  me — that's  what  I'd  like 
to  know?"  he  asked. 

"  Will  you  hear  me  now,  Governor,"  interposed 
Morehead. 

For  an  instant  the  Governor  hesitated.  Then 
he  replied  that  he  would  send  for  him  when  he 
was  ready;  that  he  had  to  read  the  case  all 
through,  ending  with: 

"  I've  forgotten  half  of  it.  I'll  read  it  and  then 
I'll  set  a  day.  .  .  ." 

But  that  day  was  long  forthcoming.  For  it 
was  not  until  three  weeks  later  that  Colonel  More- 
head  heard  anything  relating  to  their  visit  to  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        273 

Governor  in  Albany.  And  then,  one  morning  to 
his  surprise,  Governor  Beekman  presented  himself 
at  his  office  in  Broadway,  and  handing  him  a  per- 
sonal memoranda,  he  said: 

"  I  was  down  here  and  thought  we'd  clean  these 
up  first.  I'm  going  to  Murgatroyd's  to  look  at 
the  original  exhibits  when  I'm  through  here — or 
he'll  probably  send  them  to  my  office." 

The  Colonel  gave  the  man  before  him  one  long 
searching  glance.  He  noted  that  the  Governor's 
face  was  unnaturally  flushed;  there  were  deep 
lines  on  it;  he  had  the  appearance  of  an  over- 
worked man. 

"  Must  have  burned  some  midnight  oil  on  this 
thing,  Eliot?"  said  Mor-ehead. 

The  Governor  wearily  drew  his  hand  across  his 
face. 

"  I  have,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"The  first  memo.,"  went  on  the  Governor,  re- 
ferring to  the  printed  case,  "relates  to  page  121." 

Morehcad  found  page  121  and  his  face  red- 
dened perceptibly.  The  Governor  had  touched  a 
sore  spot:  page  121  contained  the  first  bit  of 
damning  documentary  evidence  against  Wilkinson. 
Morehead  ran  through  the  other  pages  indicated 
on  the  memoranda ;  and  closing  his  eyes  for  a  few 
seconds,  be  pressed  his  hands  against  them  and 
thought  hard.  The  Governor  had  burnt  midnight 
oil  to  some  purpose:  he  had  located  every  weak 


274         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

place  in  Wilkinson's  armour — and  Morehead 
knew  it. 

"  I  merely  want  to  find  out  what  Wilkinson's 
explanation  of  all  these  things  is,"  remarked  the 
Governor,  grimly. 

"Til  tell  you,"  said  the  Colonel,  glibly;  "that's 
easy,  Eliot.  Or,  perhaps,"  he  suggested  in  order 
to  gain  time,  "  we  might  get  Wilkinson  down  here, 
and  have  him  go  over  these  things  with  you  and 
me."  Already  his  hand  was  on  the  telephone; 
but  the  Governor  stayed  it. 

"  Your  explanation  will  do,  Colonel." 

For  two  hours  the  Governor  listened  to  More- 
head's  explanation.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the 
Governor  was  still  leaning  forward  studying  every 
expression  in  the  other's  face;  but  the  lines  were 
deeper  in  his  own  face,  while  on  the  Colonel's 
lean  countenance  small  beads  of  perspiration  stood 
forth. 

"That's  the  explanation  of  it,  is  it,  Colonel?" 
asked  the  Governor. 

"That's  the  whole  thing  in  a  nut-shell,"  re- 
Jturned  Morehead. 

Hurriedly  the  Governor  took  his  departure. 
He  was  nervous,  anxious,  worried. 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  kind  of  an  explanation  that 
doesn't  explain  .  .  ."  he  told  himself.  Now  he 
went  back  to  his  old  office  on  Nassau  Street  and 
telephoned  to  Murgatroyd  for  the  original  ex- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         275 

hibits.  At  the  Barristers'  Club,  behind  locked 
doors,  he  examined  the  documents  for  hours.  All 
night  long  he  studied  them;  then  he  rose  and 
gazed  out  into  the  grey  dawn. 

"Wilkinson  is  guilty!"  he  cried  out;  "damna- 
bly guilty!  Why  didn't  I  see  it  all  before?" 

There  was  a  reason:  Colonel  Morehead  had 
been  right  when  he  told  Wilkinson  that  Beekman 
was  partisan.  And  so  long  as  his  duty  lay  that 
way,  Beekman  was  partisan.  But  now  he  was 
Governor;  his  duty  in  this  case  had  become  judi- 
cial; he  saw  with  impartial  eyes;  and  what  he  saw 
and  what  he  read  was  not  the  mere  testimony  of 
witnesses,  not  evidence  that  depended  on  veracity, 
but  documents  whose  genuineness  was  undisputed, 
and  whose  significance  had  strangely  escaped  him 
until  now.  In  his  own  words,  over  his  own  signa- 
ture, Wilkinson  had  convicted  himself  over  and 
over  again. 

"  Damnably  guilty,"  he  repeated  to  himself. 

One  evening  some  days  later  Colonel  Morehead 
betook  himself  into  the  presence  of  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson and  his  daughter  Leslie.  He  had  with 
him,  he  said,  a  note  which  had  come  from  the 
Governor's  private  chambers,  which  he  wished  to 
read  to  them.  It  ran: 

My  dear  Colonel: 

I   have   examined   with   great   care  the  petitions   for   pardon 


276        THE    RUNNINQ    FIGHT 

in  the  People  vs.  Wilkinson.  Also  the  printed  record.  There 
seem  to  be  undisputed  facts  which  are  totally  inconsistent  with 
innocence.  The  verdict  seems  to  have  been  justified,  the  deci- 
sions on  appeal  correct.  There  are  no  extenuating  circumstances 
known  to  me  which  require  executive  interference. 

Very  truly, 

ELIOT  BEEKMAN. 

"What  the  devil  does  he  want?  "  growled  Wil- 
kinson, taking  the  letter  from  Morehead,  and 
tossing  it  to  Leslie.  "  Is  it  money  or  political 
preferment?  Haven't  I  given  him  enough?"  his 
anger  increasing  as  he  went  on.  "  I  made  him 

"  Stop ! "  cried  Morehead,  alarmed  lest  he 
should  betray  to  her  their  political  secret. 

"  I  mean  I  gave  him  my  daughter,"  corrected 
the  father,  "  everything  I  had." 

Morehead  stared  at  them  a  moment  from  under 
knitted  brows.  Presently  he  said : 

"  Peter,  I'd  send  Leslie  to  him.  This  letter  is 
only  tentative." 

"  It's  a  refusal,"  gasped  Wilkinson,  hopelessly. 

"  It's  a  denial  to  me,"  explained  Colonel  More- 
head.  "But  wait  until  he  sees  her!  He'll  have 
something  different  to  say  to  her,  I  know." 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  following  day  Les- 
lie Wilkinson  arrived  at  Albany  to  interview  her 
betrothed  on  her  father's  behalf. 

"  I  came  to  talk  to  you,  Eliot,  about  my  father," 
she  began. 

Beekman  swayed  in  his  chair.    His  eyes  seemed 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        277 

sunken  in  his  head,  and  his  head  ached  from  weari- 
ness and  lack  of  sleep. 

"Yes,  Leslie,"  he  said. 

"  Colonel  Morehead  didn't — couldn't  under- 
stand what  your  letter  meant,  so  I  came  to 
see." 

"  It  means  that  I  can't  pardon  your  father, 
Leslie,"  he  told  her  with  great  difficulty. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  your  father  is  guilty " 

"  Eliot !  "  she  cried,  leaping  back  with  flashing 
eyes. 

"  But  I  must  speak  the  truth,  Leslie,"  said  the 
Governor,  "  and  that's  the  truth." 

There  was  a  silence  that  lapsed  into  minutes. 
Beekman  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"Unfortunately  for  us  all,"  he  said,  "I'm 
sworn  to  do  my  duty — I  don't  know  that  it  makes 
much  difference  about  my  being  sworn — I'd  have 
to  do  it  anyway." 

"You  defended  him,"  she  said  with  sudden 
spirit.  "You  believed  him  innocent  then — you 
said  so  a  thousand  times." 

"  I  defended  him  below,"  he  returned,  "  be- 
cause it  was  my  duty  to  defend  him.  I  had  never 
seen  any  other  side  of  the  case  then;  but  now  I 
know  I  was  wrong.  He's  guilty,  deliberately 
guilty,  wofully  guilty.  .  .  ." 

"  Eliot,  must  I  remind  you  that  you  are  speak- 


278         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

ing  of  my  father !  Have  I  no  right,  no  influence, 
no  claim  upon  you?"  she  rattled  on  breathlessly. 

"  Yes,  you  have  a  claim  upon  me,"  he  said, 
eyeing  her  sternly.  ''  Your  influence  is  of  the  best, 
Leslie,  and  it  is  your  right,  your  duty  to  claim, 
to  demand  of  me  that  I  shall  do  my  duty  in  this 
as  in  all  things.  If  I  were  false  in  this,  I  would 
be  false  to  you." 

But  Leslie  could  not  see  things  in  his  light,  bent 
as  she  was  on  obtaining  her  father's  pardon. 

"You  pardoned  Giles  Ilingsworth  ?  "  she  went 
on;  "  and  now  you  won't  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  pardoned  Giles  Ilingsworth,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

"  A  murderer !  "  she  blazed  forth. 

"  I  pardoned  him  because  he  was  innocent,"  he 
insisted. 

"And  you  can't  pardon  my  father?" 

Eliot  Beekman  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  hung 
his  head  under  the  girl's  scrutinising  gaze.  She 
looked  very  beautiful,  irresistibly  beautiful  to  him 
pleading  there,  and  for  a  moment  he  came  peril- 
ously near  to  wavering  in  his  purpose.  H-e  would 
have  liked  to  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  to  have 
uttered  the  one  word  of  all  others  that  she  wished 
to  hear  and  to  have  sent  her  home  happy.  But, 
hard  as  it  was  to  deny  her,  he  knew  from  the  first 
that  it  was  impossible  to  grant  her  request. 

"  No,  Leslie,  I  can't,"  he  told  her  at  last. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         279 

"  Look  at  me ! "  she  cried,  now  changing  her 
tactics.  "  I  haven't  slept,  I  haven't  eaten !  Have 
you  no  pity  for  me — if  not  for  him?  " 

"  But,  Leslie,  you're  asking  me  to  commit  a 
crime ! " 

"  Just  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  dear,  and  my  father 
will  be  free,"  she  went  on,  half  sobbing,  half 
smiling.  "  It's  his  last  chance — my  last  chance — 
surely  you  can't,  you  won't  refuse  me  this." 

Then  followed  a  scene  that  lived  in  Beekman's 
memory  for  ever  after — the  memory  of  a  woman, 
the  woman  he  loved,  crawling  after  him  on  her 
knees,  pleading,  almost  writhing  in  agony,  im- 
ploring him  to  do  this  impossible  thing — a  thing 
that,  were  it  not  for  his  conscience,  was  so  ridicu- 
lously easy:  merely  the  exercising  of  the  authority 
vested  in  him,  and  solely  in  him,  and  thus  save 
the  father  of  the  woman  he  loved  from  serving  a 
term  of  ten  years  at  hard  labour  in  the  State's 
Prison. 

'"  Why  was  I  ever  Governor ! "  burst  out 
Beekman. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,"  said  Wilkinson,  striding 
suddenly  into  the  room.  "  It's  because  I  made 
you  Governor,  that's  why!  I — I  bought  you  the 
job— I " 

"You?"  ejaculated  Beekman. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Flomerfelt,  gliding  also 
into  the  scene.  "You  owe  it  all  to  Peter  V." 


28o        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Now  you've  got  to  do  it! "  exclaimed  Lesli-e, 
staggering  to  her  feet. 

Beekman  eyed  them  all  with  growing  determi- 
nation. He  was  beginning  to  see  things  clearly 
now. 

"  I  even  gave  you  my  daughter,  confound  you !  " 
went  on  Wilkinson. 

Beekman  turned  back  to  his  desk  and  stood 
there,  calm  now,  desperately  calm. 

"So  you  made  me  Governor  just  to  get  this 
pardon?" 

Flomerfelt  started  to  speak,  but  Wilkinson  was 
before  him. 

"Yes,"  snarled  Wilkinson,  "just  to  get  this 
pardon.  Do  you  think  for  an  instant  that  you 
were  put  here  for  any  other  reason  ?  Or  that  you 
had  any  qualifications  for  the  office  ?  " 

Leslie  laughed  a  discordant  laugh,  and  Flomer- 
felt, seeing  at  once  that  the  girl  was  in  complete 
sympathy  with  her  father,  stepped  back  behind 
them. 

"There  are  many  good  reasons,  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son," said  the  Governor,  grimly,  "  why  you  should 
not  be  pardoned.  Needless  to  say  you  know  what 
they  are.  But,"  he  added  fiercely,  for  he  knew 
that  he  had  been  tricked,  "  if  there  were  no  other 
reason,  the  fact  that  you  had  put  me  here  to  secure 
your  pardon  would  make  it  impossible  for  me  to 
act."  He  stopped  and  stared  at  Leslie,  his  eyes 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         281 

unconsciously  seeking  hers  for  sympathy,  but 
something  there  shocked  him  beyond  measure,  and 
before  he  was  aware  of  what  he  was  saying,  he 
blurted  out: 

"  Did  you  give  me  your  daughter  for  the  same 
season?  Did  you,  Leslie " 

There  was  a  deep  silence  in  which  the  attention 
of  all  was  focussed  on  the  girl. 

"  Mr.  Beekman,"  she  said,  in  a  cold,  hard 
voice,  though  her  eyes  were  softly  eager,  "  will  you 
tell  me  once  for  all  whether  you're  going  to  par- 
don my  father?" 

"I  certainly  am  not  going  to  pardon  him,"  de- 
clared Beekman. 

Leslie  favoured  him  with  a  little  stinging 
laugh. 

"Then  you'd  better  know  the  rest.  Yes,  it  is 
true  that  my  father  gave  me  to  you — I  gave  my- 
self to  you  for  that  very  reason,  and  no  other  .  .  . 
I  made  a  big  mistake;  so  did  he.  We  should 
have  made  our  bargain  before  we  took  that  step. 
It  would  have  been  better."  She  paused  to  take 
breath,  and  presently  went  on  in  a  voice  that 
rankled:  "You  talked  once  to  me  of  equals — and 
when  you  got  this  office  you  thought,  at  last,  that 
you  were  my  equal.  I  know  better;  you're  my 
inferior.  And  I  want  you  to  know  and  to  under- 
stand— and  understand  it  clearly — that  the  Wil- 
kinsons do  not  mate  with  cowards."  And  with 


282        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

that  she  drew  off  her  ring  and  placed  it  before 
him,  crying :   "  There !  " 

An  instant  later,  Leslie,  strangling  a  sob  that 
threatened  to  escape,  hurriedly  fl-ed  from  the 
room,  her  father  and  Flomerfelt  following  closely 
on  her  heels. 


XIX 

IN  common  with  most  men  who  have  attained 
their  ambition  to  be  money-kings,  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson regarded  the  legal  profession  solely  in  the 
light  of  the  ability  of  its  members  to  provide  pro- 
cesses for  him  by  means  of  which  the  law  could 
be  evaded.  Failing  in  that  or  in  their  promises  of 
immunity  from  imprisonment, — which  is  much 
more  to  the  point  in  this  case, — their  usefulness* 
naturally,  ceased.  Accordingly,  from  time  to 
time,  one  after  another  of  his  superfluous  counsel 
had  been  dropped,  even  Patrick  Durand,  able 
criminal  lawyer  as  he  was  acknowledged  to  be, 
being  forced  to  content  himself  with  a  handsomer 
souvenir  of  his  connection  with  the  case,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  any  further  interest  in  the  expected 
spoils.  Obviously,  the  old  Colonel  was  retained, 
but  even  this  field  marshal  of  a  hundred  cam- 
paigns, when  he  arrived  at  the  Wilkinson  suite 
in  the  Remsen  at  Albany  in  response  to  Wilkin- 
son's imperative  summons,  had  to  acknowledge 
that  the  battle  of  his  life — the  last  battle  of  what 
he  called  the  running  fight — was  on,  and  likely, 
so  at  least  it  looked  at  the  present  time,  to  be  his 
Waterloo. 

283 


284         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

It  was  but  little  wonder  that,  witnessing  the 
hurst  of  rage  with  which  Wilkinson  had  told  him 
of  the  Governor's  refusal  to  pardon,  not  to  speak 
of  the  pitiful  state  of  collapse  in  which  he  found 
Leslie,  that  thwarted  and  disappointed  as  he  was, 
Colonel  Morehead  came  to  feel  that  there  was 
little  likelihood  of  anything  being  immediately 
done  towards  the  forming  of  a  new  campaign. 
Practically,  the  Wilkinson  advisory  committee  had 
dwindled  down  to  three — a  triumvirate  now,  as  it 
were — for  Flomerfelt,  doubtless  for  reasons  of  his 
own,  had  returned  to  New  York;  and  Morehead 
at  once  set  himself  the  task  of  forcing  the  intel- 
lects of  father  and  daughter  to  resume  their  func- 
tions. With  the  girl  it  did  not  prove  difficult. 
Womanlike,  and  despite  her  horror  of  the  in- 
evitable, she  flung  aside  her  own  personal  troubles 
at  the  call  of  the  Colonel  for  a  consultation,  and 
entered  the  conclave  intent  on  helping  her  father 
in  his  last  great  struggle  with  an  energy  that  she 
determined  would  be  boundless. 

"  Colonel  Morehead,  why  can't  father  go 
away?"  suddenly  said  the  girl. 

"Why  not,  Morehead?"  asked  Wilkinson, 
fairly  jumping  at  her  words. 

But  the  Colonel  was  still  sullen.  He  was  beaten, 
or  thought  he  was,  which  is  very  much  the  same 
thing.  Wilkinson,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to 
iind  new  life  in  the  moroseness  of  the  other.  And 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         285 

for  the  first  time  in  the  struggle  Wilkinson  seemed 
to  feel  that  the  whole  fight  rested  on  his  own 
shoulders,  and  Wilkinson  was  one  who  dearly 
loved  to  fight  alone  and  single-handed. 

'"  Why  not  run  away,  Morehead?  "  he  repeated. 

"How?"  demanded  the  Colonel  with  little  in- 
terest. 

"The  Marchioness    ..."     suggested  Leslie. 

"And  forfeit  a  million  dollars  bail?" 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,"  declared  Wilkin- 
son, "  they'll  never  get  me  behind  the  bars  again ! 

Never !  Not  even  if  I  have  to "  A  new 

strange  note  had  forced  itself  into  his  tone.  Les- 
lie, feeling  suddenly  cold,  crept  closer  to  him. 

"  Don't,  don't  talk  that  way,  father!  "  she  cried. 
"  It  shall  never  come  to  that." 

Morehead,  even,  was  alarmed. 

"  Peter,  you  don't  mean "  he  began. 

'"  I  mean,"  repeated  the  other,  looking  sturdily 
at  him,  "  that  if  they  ever  put  me  behind  the  bars, 
it  will  be  after  life  has  left  my  body." 

Leslie  uttered  a  half-strangled  cry  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  But  Wilkinson  only  braced 
himself. 

"  We  haven't  got  to  that  yet,  Colonel,"  he  ob- 
served. There  was  a  pause,  after  which  he  re- 
peated his  question:  "Why  not  run  away,  eh?" 

The  Colonel  thought  a  moment.     Then,  taking 


286        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

both  Wilkinson  and  Leslie  by  the  arm  marched 
them  to  the  window  and  drew  back  the  curtain. 

"  Do  you  see  that  Italian  fruit-vender  over  there 
selling  figs  to  the  swell?  They're  Murgatroyd's 
men,  both  of  them.  Murgatroyd's  got  you  sur- 
rounded, sewed  up,  tied  in.  One  of  the  elevator 
boys  in  the  Remsen  here  is  a  New  York  County 
man;  the  chambermaid  of  this  suite  is  a  detective. 
Murgatroyd  has  sworn  that  you  won't  get  away. 
It  may  cost  the  County  of  New  York  a  million 
dollars,  but  you  know  Murgatroyd!  And,  be- 
sides, behind  him  stand  the  National  Banks.  How 
much  will  they  put  up  to  break  you,  eh  ?  Murga- 
troyd will  put  you  behind  the  bars  as  sure  as  guns 

— unless "  He  stopped,  his  eyes  were  half 

shut. 

"Unless "  repeated  father  and  daughter, 

leaning  forward. 

Morehead  did  not  answer  at  once.  His  mind 
was  working  fast;  he  was  evidently  feeling  his 
way  clear  before  committing  himself.  Suddenly 
he  said: 

"  Peter,  how  long  have  you  worn  a  beard?" 

The  question  seemed  so  irrelevant  that  the  mil- 
lionaire started. 

"Why,  nearly  all  my  life,"  he  answered.  "I've 
— I've  never  shaved.  But " 

"  It  was  so  bristly,"  explained  the  Colonel, 
"  that  I  thought  it  might  be  the  result  of  shaving; 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        287 

but  everything  about  you  bristles,  so  I  guess  it's 
nature  and  not  art.  When  you  first  saw  it  coming, 
you  let  it  grow,  didn't  you — and  you've  had  it 
ever  since?" 

Peter  V.  did  not  like  the  turn  the  conversation 
was  taking,  and  merely  nodded. 

The  Colonel  uncrossed  his  legs  and  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  facing  them. 

"How  do  you  look  without  a  beard?"  he 
asked. 

Leslie  laughed  aloud  in  sheer  delight.  The 
problem  seemed  to  be  solving  itself,  but  how  or 
in  what  way  she  could  not  see. 

"  Blamed  if  I  know,"  answered  Wilkinson.  "  I 
don't  even  remember  how  I  used  to  look  without 
a  beard,  and  as  for  photographs,  well,  in  former 
days  those  luxuries  were  not  for  me,  you  know." 

Colonel  Morehead  stuck  his  hands  into  his  arm- 
pits and  rested  his  chin  upon  his  shirt  front.  Pres- 
ently he  went  on: 

"  Peter,  you  know  this  is  Murgatroyd's  pet 
case.  It's  his  first  in  his  series  of  raids  upon  the 
iniquitous  rich.  He  means  to  see  to  it  that  you 
serve  ten  years — less  good  behaviour.  From  the 
time  you  put  up  your  million-dollar  bail  bond  he 
has  had  you  watched.  Of  course  his  task  is  a  tre- 
mendous one.  You  and  I  know  that  time  and  time 
again  we  have  eluded  the  vigilance  of  his  men; 
and  we  know  that  we  can  do  it  again  for  a  time; 


288         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

but  that  doesn't  alter  the  situation.  If  you  should 
disappear,  every  hotel,  every  train,  every  steam- 
ship would  be  thronged  with  plainclothes  men. 
You  can't  get  out  of  the  United  States,  and  you 
can't  get  out  of  the  State,  unless — you  can't,  in 
fact,  elude  Murgatroyd  for  any  time  at  all,  un- 
less  "  Again  he  stopped,  and  again  Leslie 

and  her  father  chimed  in  insistently: 

"Unless " 

"  Unless  you  follow  my  directions." 

"What  are  they?"  quickly  asked  the  others. 

"  You've  got  to  leave  your  beard  and  your  name 

and  all  your  worldly  goods "  went  on  the 

Colonel,  but  he  checked  himself  in  time. 

"  My  worldly  possessions  being  minus  anyway," 
sighed  Wilkinson,  helping  the  Colonel  out. 

"You've  got  to  leave,  even  Mrs.  Peter  V.," 
smiled  Morehead. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  exclaimed  Wilkinson  with 
mock  solemnity;  then  he  added:  "I  can  leave  the 
lady  with  eminent  complacency." 

"And  also,"  went  on  Morehead,  mercilessly, 
"you  must  leave  your  daughter." 

There  was  a  sharp  cry  from  Leslie,  but  Wilkin- 
son gave  no  sign.  He  merely  sniffed  hopefully, 
for  he  smelled  freedom  in  all  this. 

"  Go  on !  "  he  commanded,  ignoring  the  quiver- 
ing palm  that  Leslie  laid  upon  his  hand. 

"  You've  got  to  leave  them  all  and  never  come 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        -289 

back  to  them,"  continued  the  Colonel;  and  bend- 
ing closer  and  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper, 
he  added :  "  Leave  everything  that  you've  got  in 
the  world,  you  understand?" 

Wilkinson  muttered  an  oath  under  his  breath, 
for  next  to  liberty  his  wealth  was  dear  to  him.  In 
fact,  he  now  arranged  in  his  mind  the  relative  im- 
portance of  things:  first,  liberty — he  must  have 
that  at  any  cost;  second,  the  millions  that  he  had 
stowed  away;  third,  his  daughter  Leslie. 

"Why  have  I  got  to  leave  them  all?"  he 
demanded,  "  and  why  never  come  back  at 
all?" 

"Because,"  said  his  counsel,  "if  you  so  much 
as  plank  down  a  ten-dollar  bill  for  a  railroad 
ticket  after  you  disappear,  you  will  be  suspected. 
The  county  men,  the  police  in  other  cities  will  be 
on  the  look-out  for  a  man  with  money;  they  will 
not  search  the  lodging-houses.  You  must  not  be 
caught.  It  takes  nerve,  but  you've  got  to  do  it. 
You've  got  to  say  good-bye  to  everything." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Wilkinson 
answered : 

"Where  could  I  go?" 

"Anywhere  you  like.  Disappear.  But  don't 
buy  a  railroad  ticket  if  you  can  help  it.  Don't  try 
to  leave  the  country,  for  if  you  do  they'll  get  you. 
Don't  do  anything  that  a  man  with  a  roll  of  bills 
might  do.  Play  the  part  of  a  tramp." 


290        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

For  a  time  they  pondered  the  situation.  The 
Colonel  was  the  first  to  break  the  ruminating  si- 
lence, and  said: 

"Of  course  your  bail  would  be  forfeited,  and 
that  would  leave  your  daughter  penniless." 

This  remark  was  for  Leslie's  benefit.  Never- 
theless he  knew  that  after  Wilkinson  had  gone, 
some  way  could  be  found  in  which  his  huge  fortune 
might  gradually  be  used  for  her. 

"I  don't  care  at  all  about  being  penniless!" 
cried  Leslie,  springing  to  her  feet.  "All  I  care 
for,  is — but  can't  I  go  with  father?" 

*4  That's  out  of  the  question — they'd  get  me  in 
an  hour  if  you  did."  There  was  nothing  paternal 
in  Wilkinson's  voice,  for  the  primal  principle  had 
Jiim  in  its  clutch.  Leslie  was  hurt  by  this  seeming 
indifference  to  her;  it  was  not  given  to  her  to 
comprehend  fully  that  her  father  was  making,  in 
actuality,  a  fight  for  his  life. 

u  You  must  understand,  Leslie,  that  this  means 
an  absolute  loss  of  identity,  or  ten  years  behind 
the  bars  for  your  father,"  explained  Colonel 
Morehead. 

Wilkinson  rose,  and  walking  to  the  window 
glanced  down  at  the  fruit  man  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  and  then  came  back. 

"  How  long  time  have  I,  Colonel,  before " 

"There'll  be  no  trouble  about  time,"  was  the 
Colonel's  reply.  "I  can  still  string  it  on  for 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        291 

months.  Summer  is  coming  on — the  long  vaca- 
tion  ," 

Wilkinson  rewarded  him  with  a  crafty,  exultant 
smile.  He  saw  in  this  plan  nothing  save  success. 
Firmly  he  believed  that  there  was  some  way  after 
all  by  which,  whether  he  was  in  Paris,  San  Fran- 
cisco or  some  other  place,  he  could  draw  back 
his  millions,  even  if  it  had  to  be  accomplished  in 
the  slow  way  that  formerly  he  had  drawn  them 
from  his  depositors. 

"Liberty  first,  then "  he  said  half-aloud; 

and  turning  to  his  daughter,  whose  presence  for 
the  moment  he  had  forgotten,  he  added:  "Isn't 
it  more  than  bedtime,  child  ?  You  must  be  mighty 
tired,  little  girl.  You're  a  mighty  loyal  one,  any- 
how." 

Leslie  held  out  her  hand  to  Colonel  Morehead. 

"  Don't  worry,  my  girl,"  said  the  Colonel, 
kindly,  "  it's  going  to  come  out  all  right.  I  feel 
it,  somehow,  and  I  know  you  do,  too.  Good- 
night!" 

But  the  Colonel's  words  did  not  banish  the  look 
of  worriment  on  Leslie's  face;  and  going  over  to 
her  father,  now,  she  clung  to  him  insistently,  press- 
ing her  flushed  face  against  his  breast,  saying: 

"Father,  you're  not  going  to  leave  me  to- 
night?" 

"Not  for  many  nights,"  he  answered,  patting 
her  head;  and  a  moment  after,  Leslie  withdrew. 


292         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

For  a  brief  ten  minutes  the  client  and  his  at- 
torney waited  in  silence.  Suddenly,  then,  More- 
head  stepped  to  a  door  and  opened  it,  and  a  man 
came  in. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  newcomer  was  want- 
ing in  self-possession,  and  his  bow  to  Morehead 
was  one  of  respect.  But  that  he  stood  in  awe  of 
Wilkinson,  his  manner  while  awaiting  orders  gave 
ample  evidence. 

"  Sit  down,  Phillips,"  said  Wilkinson.  "  Have 
a  cigar?" 

Governor  Beekman's  secretary  helped  himself 
to  a  cigar,  and  in  fact  made  himself  quite  at  home. 

"  Now  then,  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  this 
man  B'eekman?"  asked  the  millionaire,  his  face 
flushed,  his  mouth  hardening.  "  He's  got  to  get 
his — and  get  it  right  away." 

Morehead  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Peter  V.,  do  you  think  it  advisable  to . 

Why  not  let  Beekman  alone  until  .  .  ." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind!"  snapped  back 
Wilkinson.  "Do  you  think  I'm  not  going  to  hit 
him  back?  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  advice  from 
you,  Colonel.  What  I  do  want,  is  for  you  to  tell 
me  the  quickest  way  ..." 

The  Colonel  swung  about  and  closed  his  eyes, 
puffing  unconcernedly  at  his  cigar. 

"I  think,"  he  remarked  mildly,  "that  you'd 
better  leave  me  out  of  this.  Vengeance  is  not  in 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         293 

my  line.  I'll  have  to  leave  that  part  to  you  and 
Mr.  Phillips  here." 

"What  do  you  say,  Phillips?"  demanded  Wil- 
kinson. 

"Impeachment"  answered  Phillips. 

"Can  it  be  done?" 

"  Easy  as  rolling  off  a  log." 

"Good — good  as  far  as  it  goes;  but  it  don't 
go  far  enough.  We  want  to  be  as  hard  as  we 
can." 

"  I  think  that  can  be  arranged  without  trouble, 
too." 

"  How  will  we  get  him? " 

"  Suppose  you  leave  that  to  me.  You'll  back 
me  up?" 

Wilkinson  clenched  his  fist. 

"  Go  the  limit,  Phillips — I'll  back  you  up.  The 
traitor!  And  to  think  that  this  man  Beekman 
might  have  had  anything  he  wanted." 

"The  Reporter  and  the  Star  will  back  me, 
too?" 

"To  the  limit." 

"We'll  need  public  opinion  with  us,  don't  for- 
get that,  Mr.  Wilkinson." 

"  Pshaw,  I'll  take  care  of  that." 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  in  Albany?" 

Wilkinson  rais-ed  his  hand  high  in  the  air,  as 
one  about  to  take  an  oath. 

"  Until  I've  done  up  this  man  Beekman,"  was 


294         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

the  magnate's  answer  to1  the  Governor's  private 
secretary. 

Two  days  later  charges  of  corruption  against 
Governor  Beekman  had  been  presented  to  the 
legislature.  A  petition  for  his  impeachment  had 
been  handed  up;  and  a  committee  of  three  ap- 
pointed to  investigate  the  charges  and  to  report. 
What  the  charges  were  was  not  quite  clear  upon 
the  first  news  of  the  affair;  but  that  they  were 
serious  seemed  to  be  conceded. 

Upon  the  evening  of  the  very  day  of  the  ap- 
pointment of  the  committee  of  three,  a  woman 
stepped  into  the  lobby  of  the  Remsen  in  Albany 
and  exhibited  a  letter  to  the  clerk.  The  letter 
was  written  upon  the  private  letter-head  of 
Governor  Beekman  and  was  addressed  to  a 
woman. 

The  clerk  raised  his  eyebrows  imperceptibly, 
and  calling  a  boy  ordered  him  to  take  the  lady  to 
the  Governor's  suite. 

At  the  Governor's  suite  the  woman  was  met  by 
a  maid  who  unhesitatingly  admitted  her  and  es- 
corted her  into  the  Governor's  den — a  small  room 
fitted  with  window-seats  and  couches  galore. 

"Are  you  sure  this  is  all  right?"  asked  the 
woman,  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  effusive  way  in 
which  she  was  made  so  suddenly  at  home. 

The  maid  insisted  that  it  was;  that  Governor 
Beekman  was  on  his  way  up  from  New  York; 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         295 

and  that  he  was  expected  at  any  moment.  The 
maid  left,  locking  the  door  behind  her. 

Alone  in  this  room  the  woman  settled  herself 
comfortably  back  to  wait  for  the  Governor.  She 
had  not  long  to  wait,  however,  for  presently  the 
door  opened  and  three  men  entered  the  reception 
room.  From  where  she  sat  she  could  see  them, 
but  they  could  not  see  her;  and  except  for  their 
being  perhaps  a  bit  unkempt,  she  noted  that  they 
were  of  the  ordinary  type  of  business  men. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  all  right,"  she  heard  one  of 
the  men  saying. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  another.  "We've  got 
a  search  warrant  from  the  House,  and  anyway, 
we  haven't  broken  in.  I'd  like  to  know  how 
you're  going  to  keep  a  legislative  committee  out 
of  any  place.  We've  got  our  rights,  you  know." 

The  woman  shrank  into  a  corner,  fearing  that 
any  moment  they  might  find  her  there.  But  they 
merely  waited  in  the  outer  room,  expectantly. 

"Wonder  what  he'll  have  to  say  for  himself?" 
queried  one. 

A  second  man  laughed. 

"There's  nothing  to  it,"  he  returned,  "we're 
on  a  wild  goose  chase.  Bribery?  Nonsense! 
Beekman's  as  straight  as  a  die." 

"  Suppose,"  said  the  third,  "  that  we  wait  until 

we  find  out  all  about  it.  Suppose "  He  broke 

off  abruptly,  for  someone  was  knocking  at  the 


296        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

door;  and  looking  up  he  saw  that  two  people  had 
entered  the  room. 

When  the  woman  in  the  inner  room  perceived 
who  had  entered,  she  could  not  suppress  an  excla- 
mation, which,  fortunately,  however,  did  not  reach 
the  ears  of  Leslie  and  her  father,  who  were  now 
bowing  to  the  three  committee-men. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Wilkinson,  "  but 
can  you  tell  me  when  the  Governor  is  likely  to 

return?  We "  he  smiled  awkwardly,  "we 

were  summoned  by  him  to  meet  him  here  at  this 
hour." 

One  of  the  Assemblymen,  a  New  York  man, 
leaned  over  to  his  neighbour,  and  said:  "That's 
Wilkinson."  Whereupon,  the  others  rose  and 
bowed,  and  answered: 

"We  were  told  that  he'd  be  here  any  minute 
now."  And  as  if  in  confirmation  of  his  words, 
the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Governor  Beek- 
man,  with  a  light  but  hurried  step,  came  into  the 
room. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  when  he  saw 
who  was  standing  before  him. 

Leslie  turned  to  him  involuntarily,  and  half 
acknowledged  his  bow;  then  remembering,  she 
quickly  turned  away,  and  looked  at  her  father, 
fixedly. 

The  three  men  pressed  forward  at  once,  the 
chairman  speaking. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        297 

"Governor,"  he  said,  "you  understand  why 
we're  here.  You've  had  a  copy  of  the  impeach- 
ment charges." 

Beekman  flushed. 

"  I  received  them  in  New  York  and  came  up  as 
fast  as  I  could,"  he  answered,  a  little  brusquely. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Governor  Beekman,  but  I 
received  this  note  from  you  and  have  obeyed  it. 
Can  you  see  us  first?"  asked  Wilkinson. 

The  Governor  took  the  note,  which  was  writ- 
ten on  his  heavy,  private  letterhead,  and  read  it. 
It  ran: 

Dear  Mr.   Wilkinson: 

Will  you  and  your  daughter,  Miss  Wilkinson,  kindly  call  at 
my  suite  in  the  Remsen  this  evening  at  eight  o'clock.  I  desire 
to  see  you  at  that  time. 

Very  truly  yours, 

ELIOT  BEEKMAN. 

For  a  moment  Beekman  was  nonplussed  and 
looked  from  the  note  to  its  bearer. 

"  I  didn't  write  this  letter,"  presently  he  said. 
He  paled  perceptibly;  his  confusion,  whatever  it 
may  have  meant,  was  not  lost  on  the  three  com- 
mittee-men. 

"You  didn't  write  it,"  queried  Wilkinson, 
coldly,  "but  isn't  that  your  signature?" 

"It  looks  like  my  signature,"  admitted  the 
Governor,  after  scanning  the  writing  closely. 


298        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  what  I 
wanted  to  see  you  about."  And  turning  now  to 
the  three  men,  he  added:  "You'll  excuse  us, 
please." 

Leaving  the  three  Assemblymen  he  ushered  his 
guests  into  the  next  room. 

"  Comfortable  quarters,  Governor,"  commented 
Wilkinson;  "almost  comes  up  to  mine  at  home." 
And  switching  on  more  lights,  Peter  V.  strayed 
boldly  into  the  inner  room.  "  Hello,  hello,  who's 
here?"  he  suddenly  called  out. 

The  woman  who  had  been  sitting  on  a  couch 
came  forth.  She  was  plainly  agitated  at  the  sight 
of  the  two  men  and  the  woman  who  now  stood 
facing  her,  for  Leslie,  unconsciously,  had  pressed 
to  her  father's  side.  In  the  background,  too, 
were  the  three  committee-men. 

"  Governor,  it's  all  my  fault,"  said  Wilkinson, 
somewhat  contritely.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
intruding  on  your — your  privacy." 

The  moment  was  a  tense  one,  the  Governor  not 
daring  to  glance  at  Leslie. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  stammered 
out;  and  then  advancing  towards  the  woman,  he 

demanded  angrily:  "How  did  you "  but 

stopped  suddenly  in  amazement.  "Why,  Miss 
Braine — how  do  you  come  to  be  here?" 

Madeline  Braine  drew  from  her  bosom  a  crum- 
pled note. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 


299 


"I— I  don't  know,"  she  faltered,  "that  is,  I 
received  this  note  from  you  and  I  came.  I  sup- 
posed it  was  about  the — the  Ilingsworth 
case.  .  .  ." 

Wilkinson  threw  a  significant  glance  over  his 
shoulder  toward  the  three  committee-men. 

"  The  Ilingsworth  case,"  he  repeated  scorn- 
fully, meaningly. 

"  They — the  maid — ushered  me  in  here,"  went 
on  the  woman. 

"What  maid?"  demanded  the  Governor,  puz- 
zled. "  I  have  no  maid.  And,  what's  more,  I 
didn't  write  this  letter — it's  something  that  I  can- 
not understand." 

"  It's  something  that  we  do  not  wish  to  under- 
stand," said  Wilkinson,  suggestively. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  come  whenever  you  wanted 
me,"  murmured  Madeline  Braine,  waving  the 
note,  in  her  agitation,  toward  the  Governor,  "  and 
I  came." 

Wilkinson  chuckled  inwardly.  In  an  instant  he 
turned  to  his  daughter  and  whispered  in  a  voice 
that  could  be  heard  all  over  the  room : 

"  Leslie,  clearly  this  is  no  place  for  you.  A 
Governor  who  turns  his  apartments  into.  .  .  . 
Come,  dear !  "  And  he  made  a  hurried  movement 
to  go.  But  the  Governor  was  too  quick  for  him 
and  blocked  his  path.  His  face  had  gone  white 
with  anger;  he  cried  out: 


300        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

Wilkinson  sneered. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  say  it  here?" 

"  You've  got  to  say  it  here,"  returned  the  other. 

Wilkinson  waved  his  hand  toward  Miss  Braine. 

"Then  please  explain  her  presence  in  your 
apartments, — your  private  apartments,  if  you 
can!" 

"I  will  not  I"  responded  Beekman,  looking  at 
everybody  save  Leslie.  "  I  will  not,  because  I 
cannot.  Nor  will  she,  because  neither  can  she." 

"A  complete  misunderstanding  all  around," 
laughed  Wilkinson.  "  Nevertheless,  I  prefer  to 
take  my  daughter  to  her  rooms."  And  again  he 
made  a  movement  to  go. 

"You  won't  take  your  daughter  to  her  rooms 
until  you  give  me  a  good  reason  why  you're  here, 
and  why  you  choose  to  make  these  remarks,"  said 
Beekman,  belligerently. 

"  I'll  answer  the  last  part  of  your  question  first 
because  it's  easier.  I  choose  to  make  these  re- 
marks because  you're  Governor  of  the  State  of 
New  York,  and  as  a  citizen  of  the  State,  I  have 
a  right  to  object  to  a  woman  of  her  reputa- 
tion. .  .  ." 

"A  woman  of  my  reputation,  did  you  say?" 
said  Madeline  Braine  quietly,  and  so  marvellously 
well  did  she  succeed  in  keeping  her  anger  out  of 
her  voice  that  not  for  one  moment  did  Wilkinson 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        301 

suspect  the  action  that  was  to  follow.  In  a  trice 
she  had  seized  him  by  the  throat  with  the  whole 
strength  of  her  woman's  hands  and  was  pinning 
him  up  against  the  wall. 

"Peter  Wilkinson,"  she  cried,  "I'll  teach  you 
not  to  speak  ill  of  a  woman ! " 

But  scarcely  had  these  words  fallen  from  her 
lips  when  she  loosened  her  hands  and  threw  her- 
self into  a  chair,  sobbing.  With  merely  a  glance 
at  the  woman  who  had  assaulted  him  in  this 
fashion,  Wilkinson  quickly  hurried  to  his  daugh- 
ter's side,  who  seemed  on  the  point  of  fainting.  It 
was  only  a  short  time,  however,  before  the  woman 
had  become  calm,  and  Beekman,  turning  to  Wil- 
kinson, demanded: 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?  So  you  know 
Miss  Braine?" 

Again  the  worst  in  Wilkinson's  nature  asserted 
itself;  he  answered  the  Governor's  question  with 
a  question. 

"  Do  you  know  this  woman's  history,  Governor 
Beekman?" 

The  woman  had  gathered  herself  together  and 
stood  motionless  with  downcast  eyes,  silent,  inert. 

In  his  turn  the  Governor  ignored  the  man's 
question  and  demanded: 

"Miss  Braine,  do  you  know  this  man?" 

The  woman  hesitated,  while  her  eyes  slowly 
wandered  across  the  room  and  rested  on  Leslie, 


302         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

standing  with  her  hand  in  that  of  her  father.  A 
moment  more  and  Madeline  Braine  had  answered 
firmly : 

"No,  except  through  this  Ilingsworth  case." 

"The  Ilingsworth  case!"  exclaimed  Wilkin- 
son; "always  the  Ilingsworth  case!  Some  day, 
Governor,  the  Ilingsworth  case  will  be  your  un- 
doing. Some  day " 

Again  there  was  an  interruption.  The  private 
secretary  pushed  his  way  into  the  group.  He  was 
received  by  the  Governor,  with: 

"  Phillips,  I'm  delighted  you've  come.  There's 
the  biggest  mix-up  here  you  ever  saw.  I  don't 
understand  it — nobody  understands  anything." 

He  stopped  short,  for  Phillips  stood  facing  him 
with  a  curious  expression  on  his  countenance,  and 
holding  out  a  folded  letter. 

"  My  resignation  as  your  private  secretary,  Gov- 
ernor Beekman." 

"  Resignation ! " 

"  My  reasons  are  obvious,  but  they  are  never- 
theless stated  in  that  letter,  and  they  will  appear 
in  the  columns  of  the  press  to-morrow.  It  is  quite 
beyond  me  to  remain  upon  the  staff  of  a  man 
who  .  .  ."  Phillips'  voice  quivered.  He 
turned  to  the  committee  of  three,  and  addressing 
them,  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  much  as  I  dislike  to  follow  your 
instructions,  I  have,  nevertheless,  obeyed  your 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        303 

subpoena  duces  tecum.  In  obedience  thereto  I 
hand  you  the  papers  that  you  came  here  to  find. 
I  found  them,  not  here,  but  in  the  Governor's 
room  at  the  Capitol.  I  think  this  is  all  you  want 
of  me." 

The  chairman  of  the  committee  took  the  papers 
in  question  and  read  them,  his  associates  looking 
over  his  shoulder;  and  when  they  had  finished 
reading  them  they  looked  at  each  other  with  an 
expression  on  their  faces,  the  meaning  of  which 
could  easily  be  interpreted  without  the  exclamatory 
assurance  given  by  one  of  them :  "  By  George ! 
we've  got  the  goods,"  highly  illustrative  of  the 
situation  as  was  that  gentleman's  phraseology. 

''  Well  ?  "     The  Governor  was  speaking  now. 

For  answer  they  handed  him  two  letters,  one  of 
which  read: 


My  dear  Beekman: 

I  now  concede  that  the  inducement  offered  in  our  interview 
of  yesterday  was  insufficient  to  justify  you  in  acting  in  the 
suggested  manner.  Let  me  now  say,  however,  that  the  situa- 
tion has  lifted  itself  out  of  the  Ilingsworth  case — we  are  fast 
climbing  to  a  higher  plane.  The  legislature  will  pass  our 
Trust  Company  law,  abolishing  trust  companies.  I  shall  see 
to  that.  You  must  sign  the  bill — you  must  see  to  that.  There 
is  a  step  beyond.  We  need  National  legislation  extending  the 
power  of  National  Banks — we  need  good  men  in  the  Senate. 
Let  me  be  clear — these  are  the  things  we  want:  Wilkinson 
must  be  smashed.  The  first  step  toward  that  is  the  pardon  of 
Ilingsworth,  for  the  Ilingsworth  case  gets  us  public  opinion — 
you  can  see  that.  Wilkinson  has  got  to  serve  his  term,  other- 


304        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

wise  he  is  a  dangerous  element.  Pardon  IHngsworth,  refuse 
to  pardon  Wilkinson,  sign  the  Trust  Company  Bill — all  this 
you  can  do  for  us.  We  can  do  much  for  you — beyond  you  lies 
the  United  States  Senatorship,  and  beyond  that,  who  knows. 
.  .  .  A  good  New  York  man  is  in  line  for  many  things — 
if  he's  got  the  backing.  You  will  have  ours.  Better  burn 
this  letter. 

Yours,  etc., 

OUGHELTREE. 

The  Governor  read  this  letter  silently,  unmoved, 
and  proceeded  with  the  other,  which  was  not  an 
original  letter,  but  a  carbon  copy.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  Ougheltree  and  was  signed  by  Beek- 
man. 

"  Dear  Sir,"  it  ran,  "  I  am  in  receipt  of  your  communication 
with  reference  to  the  IHngsworth  petition  for  pardon.  I  note 
everything  you  say  and  have  considered  it  carefully.  I  shall 
do  my  best  to  decide  this  case  upon  its  merits,  and  will  advise 
you  of  the  result. 

Very  truly, 

ELIOT  BEEKMAN. 

"This  letter,"  said  the  Governor,  handing  the 
letters  back  and  referring  to  the  carbon  copy,  "  is 
a  copy  of  my  letter  to  Ougheltree ;  the  other  letter 
I  never  saw." 

"  But  isn't  it  strange,"  asked  the  chairman, 
"that  yours  is  an  answer  to  the  other.  Besides, 
his  letter  is  dated  one  day,  yours  the  next." 

The  Governor  took  the  letters  again  and  looked 
them  over  still  more  carefully.  Finally  he  or- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        305 

dered  Phillips  to  go  to  his,  Beekman's,  private 
room  and  fetch  Ougheltree's  letter  of  that  date. 

"This  is  his  letter  of  that  date,"  returned 
Phillips,  referring  to  the  one  already  read. 

"  Ougheltree  did  write  me  a  letter  of  that  date, 
gentlemen,"  conceded  the  Governor,  eyeing  the 
other  sternly.  Whereupon  Wilkinson  winked 
broadly  at  the  committee,  and  the  chairman  took 
notes  upon  a  little  pad.  "  But  this  is  not  the 
letter." 

The  chairman  smiled. 

"  It's  very  strange,"  he  said,  meaningly. 

The  committee  returned  to  the  reception-room 
and  took  seats  round  the  table. 

"You  understand,  Governor,"  said  the  chair- 
man, "that  we  are  commissioned  to  report  on 
these  charges.  We  came  here  partly  to  get  evi- 
dence, partly  to  get  your  statement.  You  under- 
stand that  the  Ilingsworth  case  is  the  pivot  on 
which  this  turns." 

"  I  understand  that,  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  the 
Governor. 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  us  just  why  you  pardoned 
this  man  Ilingsworth?"  inquired  the  other. 

Leslie  leaned  forward,  drinking  in  every  word. 
Even  the  lingering  respect  that  she  had  for  Beek- 
man  was  fast  leaving  her.  Her  father  had  seen 
to  that.  Beekman  was  already  sinking  beneath 
the  surface.  Wilkinson  intended  that  he  should 
go  down  into  ignominy  shunned  by  all. 


306         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Beekman  still  addressed  the  men  of  the  com- 
mittee, but  now  he  looked  at  Leslie. 

"  Everybody  knows  why  I  pardoned  Ilings- 
worth," he  said.  "  Ilingsworth  didn't  commit  the 
crime." 

The  chairman  poised  his  pencil. 

"  So  it  was  a  matter  not  susceptible  of  proof, 
wholly  within  your  own  knowledge  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  no  one  else?" 

"Yes,  that  is  true." 

"  Come,  Leslie,"  said  her  father,  drawing  her 
away;  and  turning  to  Beekman  he  eyed  him 
severely,  and  added  "The  price  must  have 
been  big!  Too  thin,  Governor — that's  too 
thin!" 

The  next  day  the  Star  and  the  Reporter  took 
up  the  hue  and  cry  against  him.  "  Too  thin  "  was 
the  Star's  headline,  while  the  Reporter  denounced 
Beekman  in  scathing  language;  contended  that  in 
pardoning  such  a  man  as  Ilingsworth  the  Governor 
had  deliberately  let  loose  on  the  community  a  mur- 
derer and  an  anarchist;  and  assured  its  readers 
that  in  refusing  clemency  to  Wilkinson  the  Gov- 
ernor had  in  cowardice  yielded  to  the  popular 
clamour  that  someone  should  be  made  to  suffer 
for  the  iniquitous  methods  of  the  great  financiers 
of  the  present  day. 

"The  present  incumbent  at  Albany  is  a  blot  on 
the  escutcheon  of  the  Empire  State,"  the  editorial 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         307 

concluded.     "  The  sooner  the  blot  is  wiped  out  the 
better." 

The  next  day  public  opinion  was  swinging 
strongly  against  the  Governor.  And,  on  his  own 
motion,  Beekman  was  suspended  from  office 
until  the  charges  against  him  had  been  tried. 

The  next  day  Ougheltree's  denial  was  ridiculed. 
What  is  more,  the  Morning  Mail,  Ougheltree's 
paper,  did  not  dare  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  the 
Governor's  behalf:  it  could  no  longer  defend  a 
man  who  was  charged  with  being  implicated  with 
its  chief,  since  to  do  so  would  be  to  admit  its 
owner's  part  in  the  conspiracy.  And  yet  Oughel- 
tree  was  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  babe  of  having 
written  the  incriminating  letter. 

In  short,  Beekman  was  doomed.  He  had 
climbed  the  hill  and  for  an  instant  had  stood  in 
the  glory  of  the  sunlight,  only  to  find  himself 
suddenly  dashed  down  to  the  bottom  at  break- 
neck pace. 

But  not  even  this  satisfied  Wilkinson.  Closeted 
later  with  Flomerfelt  in  the  big  house  on  the 
Drive  he  ground  his  heel  into  the  rug  of  his  den, 
exclaiming: 

'"  Never  until  he  wallows  in  the  mud,  Flomer- 
felt, will  I  let  up  on  him ! " 

And  in  all  this  what  of  Leslie? 

Irrefutable  evidence  had  been  presented  to  her 
of  the  Governor's  unworthiness,  and  little  wonder, 


308        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

then,  that  she  had  ranged  herself  upon  her  father's 
side.  Nevertheless,  there  were  times  when  she 
would  shudder  in  silence.  For  out  in  the  future 
it  was  certain  that  one  of  three  things  must  happen 
to  her  father,  and  she  dreaded  any  one  of  them. 


XX 

"  I  SUPPOSE  there  is  some  painless  way  of  putting 
him  to  death?" 

The  voice  was  Wilkinson's.  He  was  seated  on 
the  veranda  at  Cobblestone,  his  Morris  County 
place,  and  opposite  to  him  sat  a  complacent,  side- 
whiskered  M.  D.  from  Morristown.  The  com- 
placence of  the  M.  D.  was  due  in  great  measure 
to  the  fact  that  a  check  reposed  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  It  was  a  goodly  check,  too;  Wilkinson 
had  been  ailing,  and  the  bill  was  heavy. 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  suffer  at  all,"  went  on 
Wilkinson.  "  I  merely  want  him  to  pass  away 
and  not  feel  it." 

"Humph!  He's  of  no  further  use?"  returned 
Dr.  Parker  Wetherell. 

"Tigerskin  is  twenty  years  old,  nearly  blind, 
and  can  hardly  hobble  a  step.  My  dear  Weth- 
erell, that  horse  has  won  me  no  end  of  money  on 
the  track!  He's  been  worth  his  weight  in  gold! 
I  hate  to  think  of  him  as  dead."  He  laid  a  cold 
hand  upon  the  doctor's.  "How  about  chloro- 
form? It's  safe,  painless " 

"  It's  painless  enough,"  interrupted  the  physi- 
cian, "but  it's  not  always  sure." 

309 


3io         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Wilkinson's  hand  trembled. 

"  It  kills  men  sure  enough,  doesn't  it?  " 

Wetherell  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  sure  enough,"  he  answered.  "  They  come 
out  of  it  when  one  least  expects  it." 

"Strychnine,  then,  or  prussic  acid?"  suggested 
Wilkinson. 

Again  Wetherell  shook  his  head. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  either  of  them  to  my  dearest 
enemy,"  he  opined.  "  My  advice  is,  not.  .  .  . " 
He  drew  forth  a  tiny  cigarette  and  lighted  it. 
"  My  suggestion,  Mr.  Wilkinson — of  course  I'm 
not  a  horse  doctor,  and  there's  no  charge  for  this 
— my  method,  rather,  would  be  powder  and  shot 
•. — the  old-fashioned  way.  ..." 

"Pistol?" 

"Yes." 

"A  pistol  bullet  through  the  heart?"  went  on 
Wilkinson,  his  hand  still  resting  lightly  on  the 
doctor's  and  his  voice  trembling.  "  Let's  see,  you 
know  I'm  going  to  do  this  thing  myself, — a  horse's 
heart  is  in  the  same  place  as  a  man's,  isn't  it?" 
He  placed  his  hand  on  the  right  side  of  his  chest 
about  even  with  his  shoulder. 

"  Good  gracious,  man ! "  piped  up  the  doctor, 
growing  red  in  the  face  with  laughter.     "  Don't 
you  know  where  your  heart  is?    Didn't  you  ever 
go  to  school?" 
Wilkinson  flushed. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         311 

"  Don't  tread  on  facts,  Doc,"  he  protested. 

'  Your  heart  is  right  there,"  explained  the  phy- 
sician, placing  the  millionaire's  big  paw-like  hand 
over  the  right  spot,  and  waiting  until  Wilkinson 
could  feel  it  throb.  "  You  hear  it  beat?  "  he  asked. 
' That's  where  your  heart  is;  but  don't  ever  shoot 
a  horse,  or  a  man,  either,  through  the  heart  un- 
less you  want  him  to  suffer  the  tortures  of  the 
damned.  He  might  linger  hours  in  terrific  pain. 
No,  no,  the  head's  the  place.  .  .  ." 

Wilkinson  shifted  his  hand  from  his  heart  to 
his  head. 

"Quickly,  eh?"  he  continued  eagerly,  "and 
painless,  too." 

The  specialist  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"Suppose,  now,"  continued  Peter  V.,  "that  we 
had  old  Tigerskin  here.  Just  what  part  of  the 
head  would  I  aim  at?  Back  here?" 

"  The  temple,"  said  the  doctor. 

"That's  back  here,  isn't  it?"  persisted  his  pa- 
tient, forcing  a  laugh  at  his  own  ignorance. 
"Where  is  it  on  a  horse,  anyhow?" 

Parker  Wetherell  touched  his  own  forehead, 
and  said: 

"  Just  about  where  it  is  on  a  man.  Right  here 
at  the  side  of  the  head  in  front  of  the  ear." 

Wilkinson  had  withdrawn  his  hand  and  was 
tapping  the  table  in  front  of  him  nervously. 

"  Doc,"  he  insisted,  "  just  put  my  finger  on  the 


312        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

spot — here  on  my  head — and  when  I  get  Tiger- 
skin,  why  then  I'll  know  .  .  ." 

The  physician  seized  his  patient's  pudgy  finger, 
held  it  for  an  instant  poised  half  an  inch  from  the 
big  man's  head,  and  then  jammed  it  into  the  tem- 
ple with  precision. 

"There,"  he  exclaimed,  "that's  just  the  spot!" 

"You  don't  say,"  returned  Wilkinson.  "I 
never  would  have  thought  it — and  a  ball  through 
there  would  do  the  trick?" 

'"  Man  or  beast — he'd  never  know  what  struck 
him."  And  then  as  Wilkinson  removed  his  arm, 
the  doctor  sprang  forward  in  alarm,  and  added: 
"Why,  look,  here,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  you've 
smeared  a  lot  of  ink  up  there ! " 

"Where?" 

"  On  your  temple.  Your  finger  must  have 
dipped  into  the  inkwell  .  .  ." 

Wilkinson  looked  at  his  finger  with  a  grimace, 
then  he  looked  at  the  surface  of  the  table  upon 
which  was  a  round,  wet  splotch  of  ink.  Upon  the 
end  of  his  finger,  which  evidently  had  rested  for 
an  instant  upon  the  spot  on  the  table,  was  a  simi- 
lar splotch;  and  when  Wetherell  had  jammed  the 
finger  into  his  temple,  it  being  still  moist  with  the 
dusky  fluid,  it  had  left  a  small  round  spot  on  his 
forehead.  With  a  hasty  movement  Wilkinson 
drew  forth  his  handkerchief  and  started  it  on  the 
way  to  his  head. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        313 

"  Hold  on !  "  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  I'll  get 
my  kerchief  stained,  too.  I'll  go  to  the  bathroom 
and  wash  it  off,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

Wilkinson  rose,  but  some  sudden  tremour 
seemed  to  seize  him. 

11  Nerves  a  bit  shaky  yet,  Doc,"  he  complained. 
And,  turning,  walked  through  an  open  window. 
Behind  the  palms  his  daughter  Leslie  was  reading 
a  book;  she  had  heard  scraps  of  the  conversation 
without,  and  glanced  up  at  him  questioningly. 
;'  Trying  to  find  out  just  where  to  shoot  old  Tiger- 
skin,"  he  stopped  to  explain,  "  and  got  myself  all 
ink." 

Leslie  laughed,  and  he  continued  his  way 
through  the  room  and  up  one  flight  of  stairs  to 
the  bathroom. 

"A  bull's-eye — a  perfect  bull's-eye  that,"  he 
whispered  to  himself,  looking  in  the  glass.  Then 
suddenly  whipping  out  of  his  hip-pocket  a  re- 
volver, he  aimed  for  the  small,  black  spot  upon 
his  forehead. 

Parker  Wetherell,  M.  D.,  down  on  the  veranda, 
having  taken  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  Leslie's 
check,  was  glancing  on  it  with  reverence ;  but  soon 
the  reverie  into  which  he  had  plunged  was  rudely 
interrupted:  a  pistol  shot  rang  out,  followed  al- 
most instantly  by  a  woman's  scream.  Wetherell 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  He  tricked  me,"  he  whispered,  turning  pale, 


3H 

"  the  painless  method  was  for  himself,  not  for 
Tigerskin." 

With  an  answering  shout  he  ran  pell-mell  up 
the  stairs.  In  the  bathroom  he  found  three  peo- 
ple :  Hawkins,  Wilkinson's  new  valet,  Leslie  and 
Wilkinson,  the  latter  swaying  to  and  fro  in 
the  grasp  of  the  other  two.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  smoking  revolver;  and  as  the  doctor 
seized  him,  he  smiled  a  ghastly  smile  and  ex- 
claimed: 

"I  missed  it,  Doc!  Missed!  .  .  .  My  little 
painless  program  didn't  pull  through !  " 

That  night  all  Morris  County,  all  New  York, 
had  the  news,  specials  having  been  gotten  out  by 
the  various  papers  to  that  effect. 

"  It's  up  to  you,  Hawkins,"  said  the  District 
Attorney  over  the  wire  to  Wilkinson's  new  valet; 
"  we've  got  to  have  this  man  alive,  and  not  dead. 
You've  got  to  be  Johnny-on-the-spot  every  minute 
of  the  time." 

And  that  was  precisely  what  was  the  trpuble, 
so  far  as  Wilkinson  was  concerned.  Hawkins  was 
too  much  Johnny-on-the-spot  to  suit  his  purposes. 
Down  in  his  home  on  the  Drive  Jeffries  had  re- 
signed from  his  position,  and  the  new  man  who 
took  his  place  was  one  of  Murgatroyd's  shrewdest 
men,  which  meant  that  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  under 
a  ten-year  sentence,  out  on  a  million-dollar  bail, 
was  surrounded  by  a  net-work  of  Murgatroyd's 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

making.  Murgatroyd  was  seeing  to  it  successfully 
that  Wilkinson  couldn't  run  away.  Wilkinson 
had  said  that  one  of  three  things  confronted  him : 
prison,  flight  or  suicide.  The  second  seemed  to 
have  been  eliminated  from  the  program  of  pos- 
sibilities; the  first  he  had  sworn  never  to  endure; 
and  as  for  suicide,  Murgatroyd  had  said  it  was  up 
to  Hawkins.  .  .  .  But  there  were  other  guards 
also  who  interposed:  Leslie  watched  her  father 
as  a  mother  watches  an  errant  child.  Wetherell, 
too,  sniffing  more  big  checks,  suggested  other  safe- 
guards, and  called  with  undue  regularity.  Every 
servant  in  the  household  and  even  the  pudgy  Mrs. 
Wilkinson  herself — Flomerfelt  had  warned  her 
that  his  death  now  would  upset  all  their  plans — 
kept  on  the  look-out.  Morristown  druggists  were 
warned  to  be  sure  to  whom  they  sold  poisons.  Ex- 
press and  mail  packages  were  scrutinised  with 
care.  No  end  of  precaution  was  being  exercised 
to  thwart  his  plans. 

"  Seems  to  be  an  awful  lot  of  fuss  about  it," 
remarked  Mrs.  Peter  V.,  as  she  scanned  the  daily 
press.  "  If  I  tried  suicide,  I  wonder.  ..." 

"  Probably  not,"  grinned  Wilkinson,  feebly, 
"unless  you  succeeded  in  the  attempt." 

Now  Murgatroyd's  men  were  handicapped  in 
one  respect:  Murgatroyd  never  trained  detec- 
tives to  be  servants;  he  trained  servants  to  be 
detectives.  Hawkins,  the  valet,  and  Watson, 


316        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Jeffries'  successor,  were  born  to  yellow  plush,  and 
had  acquired  the  detective  polish  later.  Their 
handicap  was,  that  they  must  maintain  their  char- 
acter as  servants.  They  must  obey,  must  efface 
themselves,  must  serve  .  .  .  otherwise  the 
game  was  spoiled.  When  Wilkinson  roared  a 
command  which  sent  them  off  for  half  an  hour, 
they  had  to  go.  But  the  intervention  of  the 
family  now  helped  them  out:  it  became  an  un- 
written rule  that  Peter  V.  must  never  be  left 
alone,  save  in  the  night-time  when  he  slept  in  an 
apartment  stripped  of  everything  save  a  bed  and 
chair.  This  last  arrangement  he  consented  to 
only  after  Wetherell  had  threatened  him  with 
sanatorium  confinement. 

It  happened,  therefore,  that  one  day,  Wilkin- 
son, weary  of  this  close  surveillance,  remarked 
to  Leslie: 

"Let's  go  back  to  the  Drive,  child.  I'm  sick 
of  the  still  nights  up  here." 

And  indeed  Leslie  was  not  sorry  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  go.  There  was  one  reason  in  particular 
for  this:  Cobblestone  was  but  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  from  the  Ilingsworth  place;  and  Dings- 
worth's  place,  like  its  former  owner,  had  become 
a  wreck.  It  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  was 
falling  gradually  to  pieces;  upon  it  had  been  laid 
the  heavy  hand  of  disuse  and  decay.  The  heavy 
mortgage  on  the  place  had  been  foreclosed;  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         317 

property  laid  vacant,  idle;  it  had  become  an  -eye- 
sore to  Leslie.  Besides,  vague  rumour  had  it 
that  the  place  was  haunted — lights,  even,  having 
been  seen  in  the  rooms  at  night.  It  was  none  of 
these  things,  however,  that  had  disquieted  Leslie, 
but  the  fact  that  one  night  at  dusk  as  she  tripped 
along  the  road,  a  man  had  darted  from  the  road- 
side, and  laying  a  detaining  hand  upon  her  arm, 
had  said  to  her: 

"  I  wish  you  could  help  me  find  my  daughter. 
I've  tried  to  beg,  borrow,  steal  even,  to  get 

enough  to  find  her,  but "  he  had  stopped  to 

search  her  face,  "but  you're  a  Wilkinson,  I  see; 
you  wouldn't  help;"  and  letting  her  go,  he  sud- 
denly disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

Naturally,  the  girl  had  been  frightened.  Af- 
terwards, however,  she  regretted  that  she  had 
not  tried  to  detain  Ilingsworth,  for  he  it  was, 
since  there  were  mysteries  about  him  which  she 
could  not  understand.  If  he  had  lost  his  daugh- 
ter, why  did  he  not  »use  the  money  that  he  had 
stowed  away — the  millions  that  her  father  had 
told  her  about, — and  why  was  the  mortgage  on 
his  place  foreclosed?  The  mortgage  on  her  own 
father's  place  had  not  been  foreclosed,  she  was 
sure  of  that.  And  so  insistent  became  the  pres- 
sure of  these  doubts  that  one  night  just  before  they 
returned  to  town,  she  sent  a  servant  over  with  a 
note  to  Ilingsworth.  Leslie  knew  him  for  a  mur- 


3i8        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

derer,  a  forger,  a  perjurer,  a  thief,  and  yet  some 
instinct  drove  her  to  this  act. 

"...  Some  time,"  she  wrote,  "  when  we  are  out  of  our 
own  trouble,  if  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do — for  Elinor — 
believe  me  I  shall  do  it — the  very  best  I  can. 

It  now  became  known  throughout  the  Wilkin- 
son household  on-the-Drive — and,  likewise,  to  the 
inner  sanctum  of  District  Attorney  Murgatroyd's 
office — that  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  contemplated  a 
trip  to  Maine.  There  was  reason  for  it:  the  city 
sweltered  in  mid-August  heat.  Peter  V.  had  no 
house  or  shooting-box  in  Maine — his  game  be- 
ing men,  not  beasts, — and  accordingly  a  suite  of 
rooms  at  a  hotel  was  engaged  by  wire.  Railroad 
tickets  were  purchased;  trunks  were  packed;  ap- 
pointments made  with  his  nearest  and  dearest 
friends  to  meet  him  there  for  a  three-weeks'  jaunt. 
Every  essential  detail  was  attended  to;  nothing 
was  overlooked.  But  there  was  one  strange  thing 
about  it  all:  Leslie,  who  usually  accompanied 
him,  was  to  be  left  behind;  Wilkinson  was  going 
alone  with  Hawkins.  It  was  his  frolic;  he  did 
not  want  to  be  hampered  by  anyone.  But  Haw- 
kins and  the  District  Attorney  knew  that  Wil- 
kinson would  not  be  lonely:  a  chambermaid  to 
have  charge  of  his  suite  of  rooms  at  the  hotel  in 
Maine  was  despatched  from  the  Borough  of 
Manhattan;  two  bell-boys  were  installed;  from 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        319 

the  instant  that  Wilkinson  should  reach  the  East 
Side  pier  in  New  York  he  would  be  attended  by 
a  drove  of  sleuths. 

But  did  Wilkinson  have  any  suspicion  of  all 
this?  If  he  did,  not  by  word  or  look  did  he  be- 
tray as  much. 

On  the  day  of  his  departure,  Peter  V.,  with  a 
matter-of-fact  air,  handed  to  Hawkins  a  small, 
oblong,  heavy,  cold,  metallic  package,  saying: 

"Hawkins,  just  stick  that  in  my  suit-case." 

Alone,  later,  the  valet  opened  and  examined 
the  package,  and  found,  as  he  suspected,  that  it 
contained  another  revolver,  hammerless,  sinister, 
ominous. 

"  Suicide  in  Maine ! "  He  emitted  a  whistle, 
and  added:  "Not  if  I  know  it,  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son." 

He  discussed  at  length  with  Murgatroyd  the 
ease  with  which  Wilkinson  might  throw  himself 
overboard,  or  might  shoot  or  poison  himself  in 
his  stateroom.  But  "  Hawkins,  it's  up  to  you  to 
see  that  he  doesn't  ..."  was  all  the  satisfac- 
tion that  he  received  from  the  District  Attorney. 

Their  preparations  completed,  Hawkins  now 
stepped  into  the  presence  of  his  master,  and  an- 
nounced : 

"  Colonel  Morehead,  sir,  to  see  you." 

Wilkinson  descended  to  his  Den,  entered  and 
locked  the  door  behind  him.  After  fifteen  min- 


320        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

utes  of  desultory  conversation,  he  helcl  out  his 
hand,  and  said,  his  voice  trembling: 

"Good-bye,  old  boy!  We  shall  never  meet  in 
life  again — good-bye ! " 

Colonel  Morehead  stared  curiously  at  his 
client.  He  asked  no  questions,  but  merely  took 
Peter's  hand  within  his  own  and  pressed  it  hard. 

"  Good-bye,  Peter,"  was  all  he  said. 

Wilkinson,  watch  in  hand,  stood  at  the  open 
door. 

"  Look  sharp,  now,  with  those  grips,"  he  di- 
rected. And  turning  to  Watson,  his  new  foot- 
man :  "  Watson,  time  is  the  essence  of  this  thing. 
Go  up  and  help  Hawkins,  and  be  quick  about  it, 
please." 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Watson  glanced 
at  Wilkinson;  that  gentleman  was  holding  his 
gaze  upon  his  watch.  It  all  seemed  safe.  .  .  . 
So  Watson  obeyed,  running  swiftly  down  the 
broad  hall  and  swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

"Get  a  move  on,  Hawkins,"  he  whispered; 
"  he's  down  there  all  alone." 

The  multi-millionaire  waited  until  Watson  was 
well  out  of  sight,  then  going  quietly  to  the  open 
door  he  passed  through,  and  walking  rapidly  to 
the  corner  of  the  street,  turned  and  disappeared 
— disappeared,  and  that  was  all  that  could  be  said 
about  it.  No,  there  was  this  to  be  said:  His 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        321 

trunks  went  on  to  Maine,  and  when  opened  there 
later  were  found  to  reek  with  poison — anaesthet- 
ics, chiefly,  that  stupefied  and  killed;  while  tucked 
away  in  one  corner  was  a  gun.  Wilkinson  had 
been  cunning:  he  had  done  things  under  the  nose 
of  Hawkins  that  Hawkins  had  not  surmised,  much 
less  seen. 

But  Wilkinson  had  not  quite  disappeared  after 
all !  There  were  some  who  saw  him  after  his  dis- 
appearance, though  they  were  not  members  of 
his  household,  nor  were  they  officials  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  county  or  State:  they  were  casual  ob- 
servers, mere  pleasure-seekers  down  at  Brighton 
Beach.  For  later  on  that  day  a  man  with  a  brist- 
ling beard  stepped  into  Obermeyer's  Bathing  Pa- 
vilion at  the  Beach,  stepped  up  to  the  desk,  as 
he  had  done  several  times  before, — for  Wilkin- 
son loved  promiscuity — he  was  essentially  of  the 
people, — and  nodding  to  the  clerk,  passed  out  his 
wallet,  his  pin  and  other  valuables,  sealed  them 
in  an  envelope,  writing  his  name  quite  plainly 
upon  it,  and  handed  it  to  the  man  behind  the 
desk.  The  recipient  glanced  at  the  name,  glanced 
at  the  man  interestedly,  then  gave  him  a  fifty- 
cent  bathing-suit,  two  checks  on  rubber  strings 
and  a  key;  and  Wilkinson,  taking  these,  proceeded 
to  his  allotted  booth. 

"  Can  I  check  that,  too?"  the  clerk  called  after 
him,  referring  to  a  brown  paper  parcel  whicri 


322         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Wilkinson  carried  under  his  arm.  But  Wilkin- 
son shook  his  head,  and  the  incident  passed  out 
of  the  clerk's  mind,  for  the  next  man  was  becom- 
ing angrily  insistent. 

Once  inside  his  booth,  Peter  V.  stripped  to  the 
skin  and  donned  the  bathing-suit.  So  far  he  had 
followed  the  prescribed  method  of  bathers  at 
Obermeyer's  as  well  as  every  other  pavilion  in 
the  universe.  But  at  this  juncture  he  departed 
from  custom:  For  having  donned  the  bathing- 
suit,  he  did  not,  as  other  men  do,  unlock  the  door 
and  run  flat-footed  to  the  beach;  instead,  he 
opened  the  brown  paper  bundle  and  looked  over 
its  contents  with  considerable  satisfaction.  It  con- 
tained a  complete  suit  of  underwear,  clothing,  hat 
and  shoes — all  second-hand;  and  over  his  Ober- 
meyer  bathing-suit  he  drew  on  these  clothes,  one 
by  one,  jamming  the  soft,  felt  hat  upon  his  head. 
Then  folding  up  the  brown  paper  he  tied  it  care- 
fully with  the  string,  and  placed  it  in  the  side- 
pocket  of  his  coat,  taking  good  care  at  the 
same  time  to  remove  from  the  trousers  pocket 
of  the  suit  he  had  discarded  a  goodly  roll  of 
bills. 

Now  fully  dressed  in  his  new  garments — leav- 
ing his  own  clothes  behind,  he  left  the  room,  and 
locked  the  door,  forgetting  neither  his  brass 
checks,  nor  to  place  the  bathhouse  key  on  the 
ledge  above  the  door. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        323 

"  So  far  so  good,"  he  whispered  to  himself. 

Curiously  enough,  however,  he  did  not  join  the 
crowds  upon  the  beach,  but  sought  another  bath- 
ing pavilion  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away — Helm- 
staedter's — where  he  was  not  known.  There  he 
repeated  the  process:  went  to  the  desk;  obtained 
a  twenty-five  cent  bathing-suit,  but  this  time  he 
deposited  no  valuables,  having  none  that  were 
visible.  Then  with  his  second  bathing-suit  he 
stepped  into  one  of  Helmstaedter's  dressing- 
rooms,  and  again  he  undressed,  stripping  to  the 
skin  as  before,  and  donning  now  the  Helmstaed- 
ter  bathing-suit,  he  opened  the  door,  closed  it  be- 
hind him,  and  took  his  way  to  the  beach. 

And  now,  since  Peter  V.  had  gone  to  Brighton 
Beach  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  bathing, 
Peter  V.  bathed.  But  strangely  enough,  though 
he  had  Helmstaedter's  bathing-suit  upon  him,  he 
did  not  bathe  from  Helmstaedter's;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  strode  up  the  beach  and  bathed  at  Ober- 
meyer's.  An  expert  swimmer,  he  was  known  to 
the  life  guard,  who  saw  him  and  warned  him 
with: 

"  Better  look  out,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  two  big  men 
had  cramps  out  there  yesterday.  I  had  the  time 
of  my  life  bringing  them  in." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  laughed  Wilkinson, 
"  there's  no  fear  of  my  having  cramps  to-day." 
And  with  that  he  plunged  boldly  into  the  surf. 


324        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

When  the  life  guard  last  saw  him,  Wilkinson  was 
merely  a  speck  far  out  upon  the  surface  of  the 
sunlit  sea. 

That  evening,  while  all  New  York  was  looking 
for  him,  while  Hawkins  and  Watson  were  being 
soundly  rated  by  the  District  Attorney,  while 
Flomerfelt  and  Mrs.  Peter  V.  were  laying  new 
plans,  while  Leslie  wept  in  the  silence  of  her  room, 
that  evening  one  of  the  Obermeyer  helpers  mak- 
ing his  rounds,  discovered  the  clothes  of  Peter 
V.  Wilkinson,  the  Trust  Company  man,  in  his 
booth.  The  clerk  at  the  desk  produced  the 
banker's  wallet  containing  hundreds  of  dollars, 
his  pin  and  other  valuables.  But  the  bathing-suit, 
the  brass  checks,  and  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  were 
nowhere  to  be  found. 

"Suicide,"  at  once  said  the  press;  family  and 
friends  said  "  drowning  accident,"  and  the  life 
guard  backed  them  up.  Furthermore,  Hawkins 
produced  the  pistol  and  poisons  taken  from  the 
trunks  in  Maine — evidences  of  suicidal  intent. 
These  strengthened  and  deepened  the  theory  of 
suicide.  Even  Murgatroyd,  after  thinking  it 
over,  was  satisfied  that  such  was  the  case.  As 
for  Colonel  Morehead,  he  would  sit  for  hours  in 
his  office,  staring  at  the  wall,  never  coming  to  any 
conclusion.  "  Peter's  certainly  got  me  guessing," 
was  the  way  he  acknowledged  his  inability  to  solve 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        325 

the  problem.  Nor  did  the  ocean  ever  give  up 
Peter  from  its  capacious  depths. 

Of  all  the  men  in  New  York  County  there  was 
one,  however,  who  had  a  theory.  This  man  was 
tall,  slender,  handsome,  a  man  in  authority.  After 
the  county  detectives  had  given  up  the  search, 
and  after  the  newspaper  reporters  had  faded  from 
the  scene,  this  man  quietly  went  down  to  Brigh- 
ton Beach  and  interviewed  the  clerk. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  asked  himself,  as  under  his 
gruelling  cross-examination  the  clerk  searched  the 
remotest  confines  of  his  memory,  "  I  wonder  what 
Wilkinson  had  in  that  brown  paper  bundle,  and 
what  became  of  it.  Was  it  drowned,  too?" 

But  of  all  the  people  down  at  Brighton  Beach, 
only  one  man  knew  the  movements  of  Peter  V., 
and  that  was  Peter  V.  himself.  He  had  had  his 
swim;  he  had  gone  far  out,  ducked  and  swam 
under  water  for  a  distance,  and  finally  had  gone 
ashore  near  Helmstaedter's  pavilion — Helmstaed- 
ter's  pavilion,  where  he  belonged  and  where  he 
was  not  known.  Dripping,  glowing  from  his 
bath,  he  had  entered  the  pavilion  with  hundreds 
of  bathers  and  gone  at  once  to  his  booth. 

The  rest  was  simple.  Having  dried  himself, 
he  once  more  donned  the  dry,  Obermeyer  bathing- 
suit,  drew  on  top  of  that  his  second-hand  suit  of 
clothes,  smashed  his  soft  hat  down  on  his  head, 
and  left  the  pavilion  by  the  street  entrance.  And 


326         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

pushing  through  the  back  streets  and  alleyways 
which  were  crowded  with  the  cheaper  order  of 
pleasure-seekers,  eating  "hot-dogs,"  he  darted 
into  a  barber-shop  and  leaned  back  in  the  chair 
with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction. 

"Too  hot  for  spinach,  Tony,"  he  remarked  in 
the  genial  vernacular  of  the  day,  "so  shave  her 
off."- 

Tony  did  as  he  was  bid;  and  when  Wilkinson 
rose  and  glanced  into  Tony's  glass,  he  looked 
upon  a  countenance  that  he  would  never  have  rec- 
ognised for  his  own.  In  former  days  his  cheeks 
were  plump  and  muscular,  his  chin  bold,  and  his 
lips  expressive.  But  for  some  years  now  a  beard 
had  covered  his  face;  his  lips  and  chin  and  jowls 
had  been  unused.  So  that  not  only  was  he  not 
the  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  of  the  present  day,  but  he 
was  not  the  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  of  any  day:  he 
was  just  a  very  average  man  in  a  second-hand  suit 
of  clothes. 

"So  long,  Tony!"  he  sang  out,  and  soon  he 
was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


XXI 

WANDERING  aimlessly  through  Madison  Square 
Park  one  evening  ex-Governor  Beekman  suddenly 
felt  someone  tugging  at  his  arm,  and  swinging 
round  quickly  to  shake  himself  from  the  other's 
grasp,  yet  glancing  down  to  see  what  sort  of  a 
person  had  accosted  him,  he  saw  that  it  was  a 
woman,  that  she  looked  pale  and  weary,  that  her 
clothes  were  very  shabby,  and  that  she  seemed 
to  be  in  sad  straits.  Instantly  he  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling  of  pity  for  her,  at  the  same  time  he  was 
angry  with  himself,  angry  with  the  fates  that  pre- 
vented him  from  doing  what  he  had  repeatedly 
done  under  similar  circumstances  in  times  past. 
For  Beekman,  always  a  tender,  kind-hearted  fel- 
low, had  never  been  one  to  look  down  upon  less 
fortunate  beings,  and  rarely  lost  an  opportunity 
whereby  he  might  do  a  kindness  to  some  poor  un- 
fortunate. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  he  asked,  not 
unkindly. 

"  I — I've  been  looking  for  you,"  said  the 
woman.  "  I " 

The  man  pulled  himself  up  quickly.  Here  was 
someone  who  knew  him,  and  of  late  he  had  been 
shunning  the  sight  of  his  acquaintances.  Again 

327 


328        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

he  shot  a  sharp  glance  at  the  woman :  the  intruder 
was  Madeline  Braine.  The  moment  that  he 
recognised  her,  Beekman  was  aware  of  a  spasm 
of  pain;  too  well  she  brought  back  to  his  memory 
the  things  he  was  trying  to  forget;  nevertheless, 
he  said  with  a  pleasant  smile: 

"  Why,  of  course,  you're  Miss  Braine.  I  know 
you  now.  How  stupid  of  me.  ...  .  But  what 
do  you  want  of  me? " 

The  woman  did  not  immediately  answer.  She 
stood  by  him  silent,  motionless,  looking  vaguely 
into  space.  After  a  while  she  said  falteringly: 

"  I — I  don't  know  what  I  wish  with  you. 
Really  I — misery " 

'*....  loves  company,"  he  finished  for  her 
under  his  breath  while  reflecting:  "How  can  one 
man  be  responsible  for  so  much?  "  for  it  had  been 
borne  in  upon  him  that  the  woman,  like  himself, 
was  a  social  outcast  with  the  hand  of  Wilkinson 
heavy  on  her,  still  pressing  her  down  though  he 
was  no  more. 

The  woman  seemed  to  have  read  his  thoughts, 
for  she  broke  in  upon  them  with: 

"Oh,  you  didn't  know  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  as 
I  did!  I've  felt  his  force,  sir,  indeed  I  have. 
.  .  .  But  we  won't  talk  about  my  story.  ,-.,  .  . 

Won't  you  tell  me  yours,  for  I  know "     She 

stopped  abruptly  and  looked  up  at  him,  a  strange, 
pathetic  look  in  her  eyes.     And  whether  it  was 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        329 

her  rare  beauty  that  appealed  to  him,  or  that  she 
was  so  intensely  human  toward  one  who  had  been 
thrust  into  the  gutter,  at  any  rate  she  seemed  like 
a  bit  of  heaven  opening  up  to  him. 

Therefore  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  pour- 
ing out  into  her  ears  all  his  sufferings  at  the  hands 
of  Wilkinson,  and  already  he  was  beginning  to 
like  her  because  of  the  sorrow  they  had  in  com- 
mon. 

;'Tell  me,"  he  said  to  her,  "how  can  a  man 
like  that  set  my  friends  against  me — hound  me 
out  of  my  clubs." 

"  I  read  about  you  and  the  Barristers'.  You 
were  treasurer — they  claimed  your  books  were 
crooked.  I  knew " 

"  My  bookkeeper  must  have  been  one  of  Wil- 
kinson's men.  Of  course  I  made  it  good.  But 
that  was  nothing  compared  with  the  charge  itself 
— enough  to  damn  any  man!  I  had  investments, 
mortgages,  but  how  he  succeeded  in  tying  up  those 
properties  in  a  night,  destroy  the  neighbourhood, 
cut  their  value  in  two,  is  what  dazes  me.  The 
power  of  the  man  is  beyond  me — I  can't  under- 
stand it." 

"  I  can  understand  it  all,"  she  answered,  "  only 
you've  injured  him  more  than  I  ever  did." 

"  There  is  Judge  Gilchrist,  for  instance,"  he 
went  on,  "what  hasn't  he  done  to  him?  The 
man's  reputation  is  gone,  and  as  for  mine  .  .  ." 


330         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

He  held  his  head  very  high.  "They  may  have 
robbed  me  of  my  money,  my  clients  may  have 
been  forced  to  leave  me,  but  there's  one  thing 
they  can't  do  to  me — they  can't  take  my  profes- 
sion from  me.  The  Judges  know — they  be- 
lieve. .  .  ." 

"  But  Wilkinson  could  have  you  disbarred  if  he 
were  alive,  you  must  know  that,"  she  insisted 
hopelessly. 

"Never!"  he  answered  defiantly.  "He  can't 
fool  the  courts.  And  some  day  I'm  going  to 
climb  back  .  .  .  even  if  I  have  to  crawl  there 
on  my  hands  and  knees." 

"  I'd  like  to  help  you  win  your  place  back  in 
the  world,"  she  spoke  up,  remembering  his  kind- 
ness to  her,  then  she  stopped,  her  face  flushing 
with  the  sudden  realisation  which  was  forcing  it- 
self upon  her,  that  who  was  she  to  stand  beside 
any  man  in  his  fight  against  the  world,  she,  a 
creature  rejected  by  everyone,  penniless,  with  a 
fight  of  her  own  on  her  hands? 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  this,"  she  went  on  by 
way  of  explanation.  "  I'm  rather  a  weak  ally  to  " 
— she  paused  to  push  back  a  stray  lock  that  the 
wind  insisted  upon  blowing  in  her  face,  but  in 
reality  it  was  to  brush  away  the  tears  that  clung 
to  her  eyelids.  Beekman  saw  this,  and  his  heart 
went  out  to  her,  for  he  knew  that  hard  as  was  his 
lot,  hers  must  be  infinitely  harder. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        331 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  so,"  presently  she  con- 
tinued. '"  But  there  was  no  one  to  care  for  me — 
no  one  to  care  what  became  of  me.  I  was  a  silly, 
vain  creature  like  thousands  of  others.  ..." 

For  some  time  the  conversation  held  to  this 
strain.  At  last  the  girl  put  out  her  hand  and  said 
with  a  faint  little  smile  on  her  lips: 

"  Governor  Reekman — for  I  must  still  call  you 
so — it  looks  like  a  case  of  down  and  out  for  both 
of  us.  If  you'll  give  me  your  address,  I'll  give  you 
mine.  One  can  never  tell,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"That's  very  true,"  he  answered  sadly,  and 
proceeded  to  scribble  his  name  and  address  on  a 
leaf  of  his  note  book,  tore  out  the  leaf  and  passed 
it  over  to  her;  then  scribbling  her  address,  as  she 
repeated  it,  upon  another  leaf,  he  added  with 
genuine  sincerity:  "If  I  can  ever  be  of  service  to 
you,  Miss  Braine,  don't  hesitate  to  call  upon  me." 
He  took  the  hand  which  she  gave  him,  and  once 
more  their  ways  parted. 

The  next  morning  Beekman's  superior — Beek- 
man  had  obtained  a  job  with  the  Title  Company, 
after  he  had  been  frozen  out  of  his  law  practice 
— called  him  into  the  inside  office. 

"I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  "it's  not 
personal  with  me  at  all,  but  the  company  have 
given  me  orders  to  ask  you  to  resign.  ..." 

"  I  knew  they  would,"  said  Beekman,  pocketing 
his  salary.  "I  expect  to  spend  the  rest  of  my 


332         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

natural  life  in  resignation.  I've  resigned  from  six 
positions  now,  and  am  being  kicked  out  of  the 
seventh.  I  bear  no  malice  to  anybody  except  the 
man  above.  ...  If  he's  alive,  I  hope  to  get 
him  one  of  these  days;  if  he  isn't,"  he  smiled  gen- 
ially, "why,  he's  getting  his  reward  right  now." 

The  hounding  of  Beekman  had  become  an  easy 
matter.  Once  driven  out  of  independent  business 
and  shunned  by  people  of  his  kind,  he  was  forced 
to  apply  for  salaried  positions.  After  that  the 
story  was  always  the  same,  except  that  each  time 
he  kept  asking  lower  and  lower  wages,  getting 
them  until  he  was  turned  off.  And  he  was  always 
turned  off — no  longer  was  his  resignation  re- 
quested. 

".  .  .  we  can't  have  a  thief  in  our  employ," 
was  the  customary  remark.  Some  imputed  to  him 
hideous  morals;  others  charged  him  with  drunk- 
enness, but  always  with  the  same  result. 

In  the  beginning  he  had  thought  of  leaving 
town  and  going  West;  but  the  Beekman  grit  was 
m  him  and  it  declined  to  capitulate. 

"  I'll  fight  it  out  here,  alone,"  he  had  told  him- 
self a  thousand  times,  "here,  where  I  belong — 
where  she  is.  I'll  fight — I'll  never  run 
away.  .  .  ." 

The  temptation  to  escape  he  had  put  behind 
him  long  ago,  but  there  were  other  things  that 
assailed  him.  He  had  the  name  of  everything 
that  was  disreputable,  he  knew  that.  Even  the 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         333 

newspapers  from  time  to  time  referred  to  him  as 
being  connected  with  fracases  that  never  had  oc- 
curred, or  if  they  had,  had  happened  in  his  ab- 
sence. Day  after  day,  night  after  night  he  walked 
the  streets  with  shame  clinging  to  him.  To-day 
he  held  his  position,  but  never  knowing  when  the 
merciless  hounds  of  the  Wilkinson  system  would 
corrupt  his  employers  and  turn  him  out.  He  grew 
shabby,  shabbier,  and  all  too  swiftly,  too.  But 
he  was  glad  of  one  thing:  his  pride  had  never 
left  him;  he  kept  himself  neat  and  clean.  He 
felt,  though,  that  these  were  things  that  would 
slip  from  him  as  he  slumped  down  into  the  army 
of  the  unknown.  Many  times  he  had  to  combat 
the  temptation  to  take  to  drink,  to  drugs,  to  the 
comfortable  vices  of  the  vagabond. 

"I've  got  the  name,"  he  told  himself,  "tfie 
name," — and  unquestionably  Leslie  believed  it — 
for  would  not  he  have  believed  these  things  of  his 
dearest  friends  had  the  evidence  been  the  same 
as  it  was  in  his  own  case? — "And  that's  where 
Wilkinson  was  strong — he  always  had  proofs. 
.  .  .  Yes.  I've  got  the  name,  why  not  the 
game?"  he  would  reason,  as  he  kept  slipping 
down,  down,  down. 

But  through  it  all  the  same  instinct  kept  him 
straight.  "I'll  stick  it  out  alone,"  he  kept  say- 
ing over  and  over  again.  Leslie  had  told  him 
once  that  he  was  a  man  of  destiny,  and  he  still 
felt  it.  As  long  as  there  was  life  there  was  hope. 


334         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

Help  must  come  to  him  in  some  form  some  day, 
and  when  he  faced  her,  he  must  face  her  clean. 
Never  once  did  he  blame  her  for  his  plight.  He 
saw  too  well  and  clearly  that  she,  too,  was  the 
victim  of  the  Wilkinson  system,  and  all  the  more 
so  because  she  was  Wilkinson's  daughter.  In 
Beekman's  mind  the  truth  was  slowly  forcing  it- 
self that  Leslie's  plight  was  worse  than  his,  for 
she  was  unconsciously  the  innocent  instrument  of 
vengeance. 

"  I've  got  to  stay  decent  for  her  sake,"  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself.  But  as  time  went  on,  one 
horrible  temptation  kept  pressing,  closing  in  upon 
him. 

Night  after  night  he  haunted  the  more  isolated 
East  Side  piers.  Night  after  night  he  glanced 
down  into  the  smooth,  dark  waters  flowing  silently 
past  him,  with  a  glance  that  held  within  it  some 
deep  meaning.  Night  after  night  as  his  body  be- 
came lean  and  gaunt,  as  the  lines  deepened  in  his 
young  face,  as  his  pockets  emptied  themselves, 
magically,  so  it  seemed,  as  he  stared  starvation 
in  the  face,  the  waters  seemed  to  beckon  to  him, 
and  death  seemed,  somehow,  pleasanter  than  life. 

The  time  had  come  when  he  knew,  when  he 
was  assured  past  all  mistake,  that  he  was  at  his 
rope's  end. 

"  I'm  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit  and  there's 
no  way  up,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  and  held 
out  his  arms  for  an  instant  toward  the  waters. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         335 

;'  There's  no  way  out  but  you,  you,"  he  went  on, 
his  purpose  clinging  desperately  to  him.  He 
stopped  and  drew  back  from  the  edge  and  crouched 
against  the  stringpiece.  For  across  the  pier  some- 
thing had  arrested  his  attention.  A  shadow 
deeper  than  the  night,  and  part  and  parcel  of  the 
night  itself,  was  creeping  toward  the  edge.  This 
shadow  was  the  only  moving  thing  that  Beekman 
had  ever  seen  upon  this  lonely  pier.  His  nerves 
became  suddenly  alert,  for  now  he  saw  that  this 
shadow  was  a  human  being — a  woman  bent  upon 
a  woman's  desperate  purpose.  He  watched  the 
shadow  spellbound. 

Suddenly  the  woman  lifted  her  hands  high 
above  her  head,  and  with  the  wail  of  a  hunted 
animal,  cast  herself  off  the  stringpiece  and  into 
the  river  underneath. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  had  jerked  off 
his  coat  and  shoes  and  thrown  himself  into  the 
stream.  He  caught  her  as  she  came  up,  but  she 
clutched  him  and  struggled,  not  to  save  herself, 
but  to  cast  him  off.  Like  a  maniac  she  fought  and 
the  two  went  down  together,  Beekman  gurgling 
in  distress.  By  some  superhuman  effort  he  con- 
quered her  underneath  the  water,  and  coming  up, 
held  her,  limp  and  inert  with  one  hand,  while  he 
swam  slowly,  for  his  strength,  owing  to  starvation, 
was  fast  ebbing.  Somehow  he  managed  to  climb 
up  the  rough  sides  of  the  pier,  bundling  her  up 
ahead  of  him,  and  laid  her  down,  unconscious, 


336         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

on  the  stringpiece,  where  she  lay  for  some  time. 
When  she  had  revived,  however,  the  mania  once 
more  possessed  her. 

"  Leave  me  alone,  please  leave  me  alone ! "  she 
cried,  her  strength  returning.  "You've  no  right 
to  interfere — no  right  to  touch  me.  ..." 

Beekman  held  her  tight  until  her  paroxysm 
ceased,  and  once  more  she  lay  inert  in  his  arms. 
Finally  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her. 

"You're  going  to  come  along  with  me,"  he  told 
her  gently,  forcing  her  on;  but  she  tried  to  tear 
herself  loose  again.  After  a  little  while  he  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  her  to  the  street,  but  there,  with 
some  strength  more  powerful  than  his,  she  sud- 
denly jerked  herself  from  him  and  held  him  at 
arm's  length,  though  he  still  held  his  grip  upon 
her  wrists. 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go,  I  say!  I'm  tired — 
tired  of  men — tired  of  men  like  you !  "  she  wailed. 
"I  want  to  go  home — I  want  to  go  back  to  my 
father — back  to  my  father.  .  .  ." 

And  still  he  held  on  to  her,  held  on  until  he  got 
her  underneath  the  street  lamps,  where  he  looked 
into  her  face.  She  was  worn  and  haggard,  but 
her  dark,  lustrous  eyes  were  something  to  remem- 
ber. "  She  must  have  been  very  beautiful,"  he 
thought,  and  wondered. 

"  Look  at  me ! "  he  said  in  a  voice  that  startled 
her  into  consciousness;  "you've  got  to  trust  me! 
I'm  going  to  take  you  home " 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        337 

"My  home?"  she  cried  feebly. 

14  Yes.    Where  is  your  home?" 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  commenced  to 
weep.  At  length,  she  said: 

"  If  I  had  a  home,  do  you  suppose  I  would  have 
attempted  what  you  have  just  prevented  me  from 
doing?  Home?  Let  me  go,  please  let  me  go!" 
and  again  she  fell  to  sobbing. 

'Then  I'll  take  you  to  my  own  home,"  he  said; 
and  added  to  himself:  "I'm  good  for  one  more 
day  there  at  any  rate." 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  she  cried,  trying  to  break  away 
from  him.  "  I  want  my  father,  just  father — Oh, 
father  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  fight  against  me.  I'm  going  to  help 
you  to  find  your  home,  your  father.  Come,  trust 
me!" 

And  the  girl,  too  weak  to  resist  him  any  longer, 
allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  by  him. 

In  a  cheap  hotel  on  this  same  East  Side  a  man 
sat  among  other  men  of  his  own  type,  drinking 
with  apparent  gusto  a  huge  glass  of  beer.  Be- 
tween sips  he  smoked  a  pipe.  His  clothes  were 
soiled,  stained  with  tobacco,  they  reeked  with  the 
odour  of  the  place.  He  had  just  finished  telling  a 
story  to  an  English  sailor,  who  slapped  His  thigh 
and  howled  in  glee. 

"  That's  a  good  'un,  matey ! "  cried  the  sailor. 
"  But  I  arn't  got  one  to  match  it,  stow  the  luck ! " 


338         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

The  storyteller's  last  chuckles  had  subsided 
and  he  had  drained  his  glass  to  the  dregs,  when 
suddenly  a  man  entered  the  place  and  thrust  him- 
self into  the  group  that  sat  around  the  table.  This 
newcomer  was  of  a  different  class  from  the  others. 
He  was  tall,  square,  handsome,  and  his  air  and 
clothes  and  manner  betokened  one  of  the  better 
classes.  The  genial  storyteller  set  down  his  glass, 
grinned  once  more  at  the  English  sailor,  and  then 
following  the  sailor's  glance,  looked  up  at  the 
stranger.  He  found  the  stranger  was  glancing 
down  at  him  with  an  intentness  that  was  discon- 
certing, to  say  the  least. 

The  stranger  slowly  extended  his  hand  toward 
the  group,  his  forefinger  levelling  itself  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  genial  storyteller. 

'"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 

The  man  at  whom  he  pointed  faltered  for  an 
instant.  His  first  instinct  was  to  give  the  signal 
and  get  his  cronies  to  bear  down  upon  this  stranger 
and  throw  him  to  the  ground. 

The  stranger — who  was  no  other  than  Leech, 
an  Assistant  District  Attorney  of  the  County  of 
New  York,  who  had  become  famous  chiefly  as 
the  lawyer  who  had  sent  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  up 
for  a  ten-years'  term — saw  the  look,  interpreted  it 
correctly,  but  he  only  laughed  in  the  man's  face. 

"There  are  three  of  my  men  outside,"  he 
whispered,  bending  down,  and  then  straightened 
up  once  more.  "Where  can  we  talk?"  he  asked. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         339 

The  other  man  lumbered  to  his  feet  and  bowed 
awkardly,  saying: 

"  Excuse  me,  gents." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  opened  near  the 
street,  Leech  held  the  other  in  conversation  for  an 
instant — just  long  enough  to  permit  three  men 
without  to  see  his  man.  None  of  the  three 
knew  who  he  was,  but  all  knew  that  they  should 
know  him  at  any  future  time. 

The  next  instant  the  two  had  passed  upstairs, 
where  the  man  had  a  room. 

"  Well,  Wilkinson,"  said  Leech,  once  they  were 
behind  closed  doors,  and  passing  over  a  fifty-cent 
cigar,  "you  turned  it  pretty  neat,  but  you  didn't 
fool  me." 

"  I  see  I  didn't,"  returned  Wilkinson,  limply. 

'  You  were  going  to  stay  here  until  you  could 
make  a  get  away,  I  suppose,"  went  on  Leech. 
"  You  did  it  cleverly,  but,"  he  shook  his  head, 
"  there  was  a  man  cleverer  than  you  in  little  old 
New  York — that's  me." 

"  You're  an  intruder,"  retorted  Wilkinson,  lean- 
ing over  toward  the  other.  "  I  was  just  getting 
used  to  the  life  here — liked  it,  in  fact." 

"  It's  the  butcher  blood  coming  out  in  you," 
conceded  Leech.  "  Reversion  to  a  type.  I  sup- 
pose this  is  really  where  a  man  like  you  belongs." 

"Who  else  knows  about  me?"  asked  Wilkin- 
son, coolly  enough. 

Leech  screwed  up  an  eye. 


340         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  fool  enough  to  give  you 
away?"  He  paused  a  moment  to  watch  the  ef- 
fect of  his  words  upon  the  other,  then  he  went  on : 
"Nobody  followed  you  up — nobody  knows  but 
myself.  Listen,  Wilkinson,  and  I'll  tell  you  how 
you  did  it." 

And  Leech  proceeded  to  detail  Wilkinson's  es- 
cape and  the  method  of  it  in  such  correct  and 
graphic  terms  that  Wilkinson's  eyes  bulged  wide 
with  terror. 

"How  did  you  know?"  gasped  Wilkinson. 

Leech  crooked  his  forefinger. 

"  Because,"  he  declared,  "  there's  nothing  new 
under  the  sun.  The  thing  you  did  was  done  by  a 
bank  cashier  in  California  ten  years  ago,  and  one 
of  the  few  people  who  knew  about  it  was  myself. 
It's  not  down  in  the  books.  You  thought  it  was 
new;  I  knew  .  .  ." 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while,  Wilkinson 
all  the  time  staring  at  the  other.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"Well,  the  jig  is  up,  so  far  as  you  and  I  are 
concerned,  and  the  question  now  is,  what  do  you 
want  of  me?" 

Leech  hesitated  a  moment,  before  answering: 

"  I  want  a  cool  million  to  let  you  go." 

Wilkinson  grunted. 

"When  you  told  me  you  were  the 'only  man 
who  knew,  I  figured  out  that  was  your  game.  But 
what  about  these  chaps  downstairs?" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        341 

"They're  not  county  men,"  assured  Leech, 
"  and  they  don't  know  a  thing  about  it." 

"  A  million  dollars,"  mused  Wilkinson.  "  Where 
would  I  get  it?" 

Leech  blew  smoke  rings  toward  the  ceiling. 

"  I  refuse  to  discuss  that  part  of  it,"  he  an- 
swered, "  only  it's  a  million  now.  Later  on  it  may 
be  two,  you  know." 

The  banker  knitted  his  brows. 

"And  what  do  you  do  for  that  million?"  he 
said. 

"  Keep  my  hands  off  and  my  mouth  shut,  that's 
all." 

"  How  long  a  time  will  you  give  me  to  think 
it  over?" 

"How  long  do  you  want?" 

"Three  days." 

Leech  shook  his  head. 

"  It  will  be  three  millions  by  that  time;  besides, 
this  thing  has  cost  me  money.  I've  got  to  keep 
these  chaps  on  the  job,  you  know." 

Wilkinson  rose,  and  said: 

"Give  me  until  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. You'll  find  me  here." 

Leech  thought  a  moment,  and  then  shaking  his 
finger  at  the  millionaire,  he  said: 

"Don't  you  try  to  get  away,  Wilkinson,  be- 
cause .  .  ." 

"That  part  of  it  is  all  right,"   growled  the 


342         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

other.  "  By  the  way,  won't  you  stay  and  have  a 
schooner  of  beer?  No?  Well,  eight  to-morrow 
morning,  then." 

Leech  left,  Wilkinson  looking  after  him  wist- 
fully as  he  went  out. 

"  Clean-cut  proposition,  that  Leech,"  he  re- 
flected to  himself. 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door.  And  to  Wilkin- 
son's "  Come  in,"  Leech  reappeared. 

"I  merely  wanted  to  send  my  regards  to  Miss 
Leslie,"  he  said,  "  in  case  you  call  her  up." 

"I  won't  call  anybody  up,"  growled  Wilkin- 
son. "  My  people  don't  know  anything  about  me 
other  than  that  I'm  dead." 

Nor  did  Wilkinson  call  anybody  up.  He 
merely  stopped  drinking  beer,  went  downstairs 
and  got  a  handful  of  black  cigars,  and  then  re- 
turning to  his  room  smoked  all  through  the  long 
night,  that  is,  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
At  that  hour  he  heard  a  church  bell  chime  and 
started  for  the  window.  In  the  moonlight  the 
dingy  backyard  seemed  peaceful  and  deserted. 
He  took  off  his  shoes  and  stole  out  upon  the  fire- 
escape;  and  climbing  carefully  down  rung  after 
rung  until  at  last  he  stood  on  terra  firma,  he  then 
started  for  a  secret  alleyway  which,  as  he  had 
ascertained,  had  been  used  in  frequent  evasions 
of  the  police.  But  no  sooner  had  he  started  to- 
ward it  than  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm;  and 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         345 

turning,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  one 
of  Leech's  plain-clothesmen. 

"Taking  the  air?"  queried  the  man,  pleas- 
antly, deepening  his  hold  on  the  arm  of  Wilkinson. 

"  No,"  said  Wilkinson,  looking  about  the 
squalid  backyard,  "but  I  saw  somebody  moving 
around  down  here — must  have  been  you — and 
mistook  him  for  a  burglar.  Thought  I'd  scare 
him  off." 

"He  didn't  scare,"  said  the  sleuth,  drily. 
"  Shall  we — er — return?  " 

They  returned,  the  detective  lounging,  wide- 
eyed  and  comfortable,  upon  the  fire-escape  above, 
while  Wilkinson  drew  off  his  clothes  and  slept 
like  a  log  for  the  remainder  of  the  night.  At 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  up  and 
dressed;  and  at  eight  o'clock  Leech  appeared. 
But  no  sooner  was  he  in  the  room  than  Wilkinson 
drew  on  his  slouched  hat  and  seized  Leech  by  the 
arm,  saying: 

"  Come  on,  I'm  ready." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  cried  Leech,  in  alarm. 

Wilkinson  grinned. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  myself  up  to  Murgatroyd," 
he  said. 

Leech  winced.  It  was  a  blow  between  the  eyes 
and  he  felt  it. 

"  The  devil  you  are !  "  he  cried.     "  But  why?  " 

"Because,"  said  Wilkinson,  slowly,   "I  know 


344         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

chaps  like  you.  A  man  who  can  be  bought  for  a 
million,  can't  be  bought  for  ten  million,  that's 
what  I  mean." 

"Explain  yourself,"  stammered  Leech. 

"When  you  get  the  million  you'll  come  back  for 
more.  You'll  never  lose  sight  of  me — eh?" 
Wilkinson's  grin  widened  as  he  saw  the  telltale 
flush  upon  the  cheek  of  the  man  before  him. 
"You'd  come  back  for  more  and  more.  That 
I  wouldn't  mind,  but  in  the  end  when  I  refused 
you'd  call  my  bluff — you'd  kill  the  goose  that  was 
laying  the  golden  egg.  You'd  give  me  up  one 
year,  two  years  hence — you  know  you  would." 

Leech  was  silent;  he  was  floored. 

"Besides,"  went  on  Wilkinson,  calmly,  "there 
would  always  be  the  danger  of  my  discovery  by 
Murgatroyd.  The  sword  of  Damocles  would  for- 
ever be  over  my  head.  I'll  make  an  end  of  it; 
I'll  give  myself  up.  .  .  ." 

"Just  as  you  say,  Wilkinson,"  returned  Leech, 
feeling  all  the  while  that  the  other  was  bluffing. 
"  I'll  take  you  down  to  'Murgatroyd's  myself,"  he 
went  on,  now  bluffing,  too.  "  By  George,  that's 
just  what  I  will  do !  Hereafter  it  will  be  said  that 
Wilkinson  may  have  been  too  smart  for  Murga- 
troyd, but  that  there  was  one  man  he  couldn't 
'fool;  and  that  was  Assistant  District-Attorney 
Leech.  That  ought  to  get  me  the  chief's  job  next 
November.  Come  on!  I've  got  a  taxicab — my 
men  will  follow  in  another." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         345 

Wilkinson  climbed  into  the  cab.  At  the  second 
corner  he  called  out  to  the  driver:  " Turn  west !  " 
Leech  leaned  back  smiling  at  this  new  turn,  and 
let  Wilkinson  do  his  own  ordering. 

"  I  want  to  get  out  here  for  a  minute,  Leech," 
he  said,  presently  stopping  the  cab  before  a  white 
marble  building.  "  Come  in  with  me.  .  .  . 
I  want  to  telephone  to  someone  I  know." 

The  two  men,  each  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  stalked  up  the  steps  of  the  Millionaires' 
Club.  At  the  entrance  they  were  stopped,  and 
Wilkinson  was  rudely  thrust  aside.  Leech  got  a 
cold  and  distant  obeisance  from  the  doorman,  who 
nevertheless  politely  asked: 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  did  you  desire  to  see 
any  member  of  the  club?" 

Wilkinson  came  forward  and  roared  out: 

"  Confound  you,  I'm  a  member  of  the  club — 
I'm  Peter  V.  Wilkinson!" 

The  doorman  laughed  in  his  face,  and  again 
bowing  to  Leech,  asked  if  the  other  was  with  him. 

"  Why,  Bowles,"  roared  Wilkinson,  "  I  know 
you  like  a  book.  I'm  Peter  V.  Wilkinson,  I  tell 
you." 

Bowles  started  at  the  voice.  He  recognised  it 
as  Wilkinson's,  but  the  man  before  him  bore  no 
resemblance  to  the  Wilkinson  that  he  knew,  and 
he  refused  to  believe  him.  And  in  the  end,  Wil- 
kinson and  Leech  were  forced,  to  their  discom- 
fiture, to  retire. 


346         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Hang  it!  "  muttered  Wilkinson.  "  He  ought 
to  know  me  if  anybody  does.  He  doesn't  know 
me,  and  yet  you  did.  How  do  you  account  for 
that?" 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  bigger  tip,"  laughed 
Leech. 

At  the  next  corner  they  stopped  and  Wilkinson 
entered  a  public  telephone  booth,  closed  the  glass 
door  behind  him  and  then  called  up  the  Barris- 
ters' Club.  Presently  the  man  he  called  for  was 
at  tne  other  end,  was  answering  "  Hello."  Wil- 
kinson smiled,  for  the  voice  held  excitement  in  it. 

"Peter!"  yelled  Morehead  in  delight. 

"Yes,  and  I'm  coming  to  the  Barristers'." 

"In  broad  daylight?" 

"Yes,  right  now.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  and 
talk  to  you  hard.  I've  read  all  the  New  York 
papers  and  know  all  that's  going  on.  .  .  . 
And  say,  look  here,  you'd  better  tell  your  people 
there  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  tramp  and  a  con 
man,  for  they'll  never  let  us  in  unless  you  do." 

"Who's  the  con  man?"  queried  the  Colonel, 
not  fully  recovered  from  the  shock  that  Wilkin- 
son had  given  him. 

Whereupon  Wilkinson  without  reply  rang  off. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Colonel  Morehead  threw 
open  his  bedroom  door  in  the  Barristers'  Club  and 
threw  his  arms  about  his  disreputable-looking 
client. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        347 

"  Peter,  the  sight  of  you  is  good  for  sore  eyes  1 " 
he  cried. 

Colonel  Morehead  stiffened  for  an  instant  at 
the  sight  of  the  other  man,  and  bowing  gravely 
merely  said: 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir? " 

"  Colonel,"  began  Wilkinson,  as  he  threw  him- 
self into  a  chair  and  stretched  his  legs  wide  apart. 
"  I'll  come  to  the  point  at  once."  The  Colonel 
was  all  attention.  "  I  note  by  the  papers  that 
you  are  keeping  the  legislature  a  devil  of  a  long 
time  selecting  a  new  man  to  replace  Beekman. 
,You  will  naturally  want  to  know,"  Wilkinson 
went  on,  "why  we  call  upon  you  in  such  haste 
this  morning."  He  waved  his  hand  toward 
Leech.  M  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Mr. 
Leech,  at  present  an  assistant  district  attorney  of 
this  county,  and  the  next  Governor  of  the  State 
of  New  York." 

Morehead  stared  at  Wilkinson  as  one  hypno- 
tised. 

"Why?"  he  demanded,  at  length. 

Wilkinson  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  drew 
him  into  the  adjoining  room  where  he  related, 
among  other  things,  the  happenings  of  the  last 
two  days.  At  the  conclusion,  he  remarked: 

"  A  man  who  asks  for  a  million-dollar  bribe 
is  our  man,  isn't  he,  Morehead?  But  there  is  one 
thing  more  I  want  to  say:  Don't  you  forget  it 
that  I  figured  out  this  thing  myself." 


XXII 

SOME  few  weeks  after  his  visit  to  Colonel  More- 
head  at  the  Barristers'  Club,  Peter  V.  Wilkinson 
presented  himself  at  the  Riverside  Drive  house. 
He  had  waited  until  he  had  grown  a  stubbly  beard 
once  more  before  introducing  himself  to  his  fam- 
ily, and  then  one  morning,  feeling  very  much  as 
he  looked,  he  had  come  in  straggling,  half-dazed, 
tired,  bedraggled,  a  sad  object  to  behold,  but  In 
spite  of  all  he  was  received,  like  the  proverbial 
prodigal,  with  open  arms. 

Then  followed  days  of  explanation  and  secret 
conferences.  His  family  physician  had  diagnosed 
his  case  as  one  of  loss  of  memory;  Murgatroyd 
had  thrown  up  his  hat  in  glee;  the  county  force 
at  once  became  active;  the  newspapers  chattered 
in  cold  type  like  magpies;  and  what  is  more,  the 
final  stay  obtained  by  Colonel  Morehead  was 
drawing  to  a  close. 

But  all  the  time  that  Murgatroyd  felt  that  he 
had  at  last  landed  Wilkinson,  Leech  kept  his  own 
counsel,  and  secretly  he  was  very  happy.  For 
did  he  not  hold  within  his  grasp  the  governorship, 
wealth,  and  in  his  arms,  almost,  the  daughter  of 
Peter  V.  Wilkinson? 

They  were  sitting  in  Leslie's  room  at  the  top 
348 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         349 

of  the  house  one  morning,  Wilkinson  and  his 
daughter.  The  father  was  puffing  away  at  a  big 
black  cigar,  and  looking  very  much  out-of -place 
in  the  dainty  apartment  with  its  poppy-covered 
walls  and  chintz  furnishings,  the  girl  wearing 
a  far  more  cheerful  look  than  had  been  on  her 
face  for  many  moons,  was  luxuriating  in  a  silken- 
covered  chair. 

"It's  coming  out  all  right,  isn't  it,  father? 
How  many  nights  have  I  prayed  that  you  would 
get  away — even  if  I  never  saw  you  again.  And 
now  it's  coming  out  all  right."  She  smiled  a  sad 
little  smile;  presently  she  added:  "You've  got  a 
man  that  the  National  Banks  can't  buy.  .  .  ." 

Her  tone  was  the  least  bit  cautious  and  reserved 
— as  one  who  withholds  judgment.  This  did  not 
escape  Wilkinson.  But  he  pressed  his  point. 

'"  You're  sure  you  want  Leech?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
don't  want  to  force  you,  but  he's  a  loyal  friend  of 
ours.  He's  run  the  National  conspiracy  to  earth, 
is  brave  enough  to  face  fire  for  me — he's  a  true 
friend,  girlie." 

Leslie's  eyes  glowed.  She  caught  her  father 
about  the  neck,  and  hiding  her  face  against  his 
shoulder,  she  whispered: 

"Of  course  I  want  him,  father.  I — I  would 
not  have  anybody  else.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  answered  her  father,  nod- 
ding. "He's  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you, 


350        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

dear — and  he  seems,  somehow,  to  make  it  a  con- 
dition of " 

"  Father,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  knew  long,  long 
ago  that  he  admired  me.  I  could  tell — why,  I'm 
so  glad,  so  glad.  .  .  ." 

Nevertheless  the  girl  was  very  tired,  was  keyed 
up  to  the  highest  pitch.  Her  father  had  but  three 
short  weeks  of  respite,  Morehead  could  do  no 
more,  and  the  legislature  was  ready  to  appoint 
its  man  in  the  place  that  Morehead  with  some 
desperate  instinct  had  held  vacant  for  so  long. 
It  was  still  a  race,  a  running  fight  with  Leslie,  and 
she  revelled  in  the  fight.  It  was  all  a  part  of  a 
desperate  game,  with  her  father  for  the  stakes; 
and  she  played  it  with  all  her  might  and  main. 

"You  will  grant  a  pardon  to  my  father?"  she 
had  implored  of  Leech,  struggling  feebly  in  his 
warm  embrace. 

"Yes,"  he  had  answered,  drawing  her  still 
closer;  and  Leslie  had  submitted,  persuading  her- 
self into  the  belief  that  this  man  was  the  one  man 
for  her. 

"You  promise?" 

'"I  promise." 

Ten  days  later  he  resigned  his  office  as  Assistant 
District  Attorney  of  New  York;  and  two  weeks 
later  he  was  lifted  into  the  high  place  by  the  leg- 
islature. One  day  after  he  £ook  his  oath  of  office 
the  petition  for  the  pardon  of  Peter  V.  Wilkin- 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        351 

son  was  handed  to  him ;  and  faithful  to  his  prom- 
ise, he  signed  it  on  the  spot. 

For  what  did  it  matter  to  him  or  to  Wilkinson, 
either,  that  there  was  a  storm  of  protest — the 
storm  of  protest  coming  chiefly  from  the  office  of 
Murgatroyd?  What  did  it  matter  to  Leech  that 
his  name  henceforth  would  be  upon  the  black  list 
at  the  Criminal  Courts  Building?  He  had  made 
good  and  had  won  his  reward — or  almost.  At 
any  rate,  for  one  thing,  he  was  Governor.  .  .  . 

The  Morning  Mail  made  but  a  feeble  protest, 
for  the  Star  and  the  Reporter  had  become  bitter 
and  exultant  adversaries  and  gave  harder  than 
they  took. 

To  Leslie  the  whole  thing  was  a  triumph. 

"And  yet  it's  a  funny  thing,"  she  thought  to 
herself,  "  that  Eliot  Beekman,  who  defended 
father,  wouldn't  pardon  him,  and  here  is  Newton 
Leech,  who  persecuted  him,  now  lets  him  go." 

It  was  in  the  Den  a  few  days  later  that  Leslie 
found  upon  the  leather  lounging  seat  two  fat  vol- 
umes of  the  printed  case  of  her  father's  trial.  She 
picked  them  up  listlessly  and  started  in  to  read 
them.  But  she  had  not  gotten  very  far  when 
voices  forced  themselves  upon  her  ear.  One  was 
Leech's — he  had  come  down  from  Albany.  For 
some  unaccountable  reason  she  did  not  want  to 
see  him  just  at  this  time.  There  was  a  wedding 
day  to  be  set — he  had  pressed  her  on  this  subject 


352         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

— and  she  was  not  ready  to  set  it.  She  slipped 
temporarily  behind  the  thick  curtains  that  hung 
suspended  by  the  wall,  just  as  Leech  and  her 
father  stepped  into  the  Den. 

Leech's  attitude  toward  the  head  of  the  family, 
as  time  went  on,  had  been  growing  more  and  more 
insolent;  and  to-day  he  was  worse  than  ever. 

"  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  he  said,  "  I've  done  my  part 
and  I've  been  well  roasted  for  it." 

"That's  immaterial  to  me,"  gurgled  Wilkin- 
son, who  had  become  a  different  man.  The  lines 
had  faded  from  his  face,  he  was  rounding  out 
once  more,  he  slept  nights  and  ate  with  regularity, 
within  him  all  was  peace  and  happiness.  The 
shadow  of  the  prison  had  slipped  from  him  like  a 
noose — he  was  free.  He  looked  at  the  other  tan- 
talisingly  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked:  "Well, 
what  do  you  want.  .  .  .?" 

"Just  what  you  promised  me,"  said  Governor 
Leech,  "  for  setting  you  free.  I  want  my  million 
dollars,  to  begin  with." 

"  Come  now,"  grumbled  Wilkinson,  lighting  a 
cigar,  "you've  got  the  governorship — that's 
enough  for  any  man,  my  boy." 

"It's  not  enough  for  me,"  insisted  Leech, 
alarmed.  "  I  want  two  things  right  away — two 
things  you  promised  me:  A  million  dollars  and 
your  daughter  Leslie;  and  the  sooner  she  can 
marry  me,  the  better." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        353 

Wilkinson  laughed  until  he  was  red  in  the  face, 
then  he  said: 

"Look  here,  Leech,  I'll  compromise  with  you. 
You  take  half  a  million.  .  .  ." 

"  Not  in  a  hundred  years ! "  exclaimed  Leech, 
threateningly. 

Wilkinson  continued  to  chuckle. 

" .  .  .  a  half  million,"  he  repeated,  '"  and 
I'll  let  the  old  lady,  my  wife,  get  a  divorce,  and 
you  can  have  her.  But  Leslie  .  .  ." 

Leech  gripped  the  table  with  both  hands. 

"Wilkinson,"  he  said  firmly,  "the  girl  will 
marry  me,  never  fear!  She  likes  me,  loves  me, 
and  she's  promised  to  be  my  wife.  But  you've 
promised  to  cough  up  a  million  to  me,  and  I  want 
it." 

"What  if  I  don't?"  growled  the  other. 

"  If  you  don't,"  cried  Leech,  "  I'll  let  the  whole 
world  know  that  you've  got  a  hundred  million  or 
so  salted  away  in  your  daughter  Leslie's  name, 
and  then  you'll  have  a  hornet's  nest  about  your 
head." 

"  Never  thought  of  that,"  returned  Wilkinson, 
paling  slightly.  "  By  the  way,"  he  mused,  "  after 
Leslie  marries  you  I'll  have  to  find  some  other 
dummy  to  hold  those  stocks  and  bonds  for  me, 
otherwise,  you'll  get  your  hooks  on  them."  He 
laughed.  "  Cleverest  scheme  in  the  world,  boy — 
Flomerfelt  and  I  concocted  it.  Why,  look  here, 


354        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

I've  been  joking,  nothing  else.  I'm  not  going  to 
give  you  a  million." 

"  You're  not ! "  cried  Leech,  growing  white. 

"  No !  "  roared  Wilkinson.  "  Hang  it  all,  I'm 
going  to  give  you  two.  .  .  ." 

"That's  better,"  assented  Leech,  sinking  back 
into  his  seat.  "But  when?" 

"Leslie's  got  to  sign." 

"Can  you  close  this  to-day?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  her.  Come  on — she's 
probably  upstairs." 

Wilkinson  and  Leech  left  the  room,  and  Leslie, 
her  face  flushed  with  the  knowledge  of  what  she 
had  heard,  crept  from  the  room  and  through  the 
hall  back  to  the  postern  stair.  There,  in  an  empty 
room  she  crouched  down  until  she  heard  them  com- 
ing down  again,  then  made  a  dash  for  her  boudoir 
and  locked  herself  in.  After  a  while  a  servant 
rapped  on  her  door  and  informed  her  that  he  had 
been  looking  all  over  for  her. 

"Who  wants  me?"  she  inquired. 

"Your  father,  Miss,  and  Mr.  Leech,"  he  told 
her. 

"Tell  my  father  to  come  up,"  said  Leslie. 

Presently  her  father,  with  a  document  in  his 
hand,  entered  the  room,  and  smilingly  announced: 

"Just  wanted  you  to  sign  this,  girlie." 

Leslie  glanced  at  it  cursorily,  saw  that  it  was 
what  she  believed  it  to  be — a  means  of  payment  to 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        355 

Leech,  and  signing,  passed  it  over  without  looking 
at  her  father.  He  stood  for  an  instant  at  the 
door. 

"Newton  has  come  up  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"The  Governor  is  getting  kind  of  lonely  up  in 
Albany — he  can  hardly  wait  to  get  a  Mrs.  Gov- 
ernor up  there." 

Leslie  drew  her  hand  across  her  face. 

"  Please  tell  Mr.  Leech,"  she  answered,  "  that 
I'm  ill.  I  can't  possibly  see  him  to-day — no,"  she 
persisted,  "don't  ask  me — not  to-day."  She 
pushed  her  father  playfully  from  the  room  and 
once  more  locked  the  door.  Then  she  went  back 
to  the  window  and  read  the  printed  case  of  the 
People  versus  Peter  V.  Wilkinson  until  the  shad- 
ows deepened  into  darkness. 

"  It's  all  so  clear  now,"  she  sighed.  "  How 
could  they  have  acquitted  him?  How  could  Eliot 
Beekman  have  pardoned  him,  even  if  he  had 
wanted  to?  Oh,  he's  guilty,  guilty,  guilty!" 

Completely  exhausted,  Leslie  laid  down  the  vol- 
ume and  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  where  she 
lay  until  the  early  morning  sunlight  peered  in 
through  the  windows.  Throughout  the  long  night 
she  had  not  closed  her  eyes,  but  lay  there  think- 
ing, planning,  some  way  out  of  it  all.  The  morn- 
ing found  her  resolved  upon  one  point:  She  would 
never  marry  the  man  her  father  wanted  her  to 
marry. 


356         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

And  so  it  happened  that  some  weeks  later  Gov- 
ernor Leech,  looking  down  upon  her,  his  face  sud- 
denly gone  pale,  his  breath  coming  short,  pro- 
tested : 

"  But,  Leslie,  you  can't  mean  it.  Don't  you 
know  that  I've  held  you  in  my  arms,  that  my, 
kisses  are  on  your  lips!  Those  made  you  mine. 
You've  promised,  your  eyes  have  answered  mine, 
you  belong  to  me  just  as  much  as  though — by 
heaven!  if  you  don't  belong  to  me  for  any  other 
reason,  you  belong  to  me  because  I've  earned  you ! 
Look  what  I  did  for  your  father — what  I  did 
for  you ! " 

"  You've  been  paid  enough,"  she  answered  stub- 
bornly. "  I've  paid  you  out  of  the  money  in  my 
hands.  Oh,  don't  stare!  I  know — I  know. 
.  .  ."  She  paused  a  moment,  her  face  flushing, 
her  breath  coming  fast.  "  Governor  Leech,"  she 
resumed,  "  while  my  father  was  in  danger  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  to  save  him;  but  now  that 
strain,  that  terrific  strain  is  over,  and  I  have  come 
to  my  senses.  I  can't  even  think  of  you,  much  less 
marry  you  with  this  taint  on  you.  Yes,  I  broke 
my  promise  to  you,  it  is  true,  but  I  had  to,  don't 
you  see?"  She  lifted  her  head  proudly,  and  then 
added :  "  I  had  to  for  the  reason  that  I  am  just 
beginning  to  find  out  that  I'm  a  woman,  and  that 
you,  Governor — you  are  not — a  man." 

The  following  evening  while  Leslie  waited  in  a 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        357 

small  waiting-room  near  the  entrance  to  the  house 
a  man  was  ushered  in — a  man  with  grey  hair  and 
bowed  shoulders,  a  man  enveloped  in  a  long  cloak 
— for  the  mist  was  heavy  and  the  night  was  wet 
without.  Leaping  to  her  feet,  Leslie  grasped  him 
by  the  hand,  and  said: 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Ilingsworth, 
and  you've  found  him,  I  can  see  by  your  eyes. 
Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  enough !  I  was  to  help 
you,  and  here  you're  helping  me." 

"I'm  helping  him,"  said  Giles  Ilingsworth, 
steadily,  but  kindly.  He  straightened  up,  and 
went  on :  "I  haven't  seen  him,  but  I've  located 
him — I  know  the  floor  he  lives  on.  He — he's 
always  in  evenings.  They  say  he  has  a  job  with 
some  labourers  on  the  new  subway." 

"  Come  1 "  she  cried,  seizing  his  arm. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  send  for 
him?" 

Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"  He  would  never  come.  I've  got  to  go  to  him 
to-night.  I  can't  wait  another  minute — not  an- 
other minute." 

In  the  open  doorway  while  she  drew  her  cloak 
tight  about  her,  they  stood  and  peered  out  into  the 
Drive. 

"We'll  get  a  cab,"  she  said,  taking  his  arm; 
but  Ilingsworth  was  adamant. 

*'  There's  one  thing  that  I  forgot  to  tell  you," 


358         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

he  went  on,  hesitatingly.  "  I — it's  only  what  they 
tell  me  down  there — they  say  Beekman  does  not 
live  alone.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  .  .  ." 

Leslie  flushed  for  an  instant  and  drew  back, 
and  then  pressed  on  again. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  is,  I  suppose — but 
never  mind  that.  I've  wronged  this  man  and  I 
won't  let  another  day  pass  over  my  head  without 
trying  to  right  the  wrong — if  it  ever  can  be 
righted."  She  tightened  her  grasp  on  the  man's 
arm.  "How  can  a  wrong  like  that  ever  be 
righted?"  she  asked. 

But  Ilingsworth  himself  knew  something  about 
wrongs,  and  muttered  half-aloud  as  he  glanced  at 
the  darkened  heavens: 

"Are  my  wrongs  ever  to  be  righted?" 


XXIII 

BEFORE  one  of  a  long  row  of  dilapidated  tene- 
ment houses  away  over  on  the  East  Side  of  the 
city,  the  cabman  halted.  Leslie  had  ordered  him 
to  drive  like  the  wind,  promising  double  fare;  and 
consequently  he  had  covered  the  ground  in  a  ridic- 
ulously short  period  of  time. 

To  the  girl,  familiar  only  witH  the  better  locali- 
ties of  the  city,  the  squalor  of  the  place  was  appall- 
ing. It  all  looked  so  dark  and  mysterious  that 
she  hesitated  for  a  time  before  consenting  to  go 
in;  but  at  last,  overcoming  her  repugnance,  she 
brought  herself  to  the  point  where  she  could  make 
the  ascent  of  the  narrow  stairway  which  led  to 
Beekman's  room,  and  she  began  to  climb  the 
stairs,  clutching  at  Ilingsworth  as  they  went. 

"They  said  he  was  always  at  home,"  repeated 
Ilingsworth,  knocking  gently  at  the  door. 

A  moment  more  and  the  door  was  suddenly 
thrust  open,  flooding  the  hall  with  light,  and  a 
woman,  wearing  a  hat  and  a  long  coat,  stood  in 
the  doorway.  It  was  Madeline  Braine. 

For  a  second  that  lapsed  into  another,  the 
women  stood  staring  at  each  other,  but  did  not 
speak. 

359 


36o         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  was  just  going  home,"  finally  announced 
Miss  Braine.  "  I " 

"It  isn't  true,  then,  you  don't  live  here?"  fal- 
tered Ilingsworth,  blurting  out  things  in  his  ex- 
citement that  should  have  been  left  unsaid. 

"  Were  you  looking  for  me?  "  asked  the  woman. 
"  I  live  at  .  .  ." 

"For  Mr.  Beekman,"  interrupted  Leslie,  in  a 
low  voice.  "Can  we  find  him  here?" 

Madeline  Braine  pressed  her  hand  against  her 
lips. 

"  He's  asleep,"  she  whispered.  "  They're  both 
asleep." 

"  Both !  "  The  exclamation  fell  from  Leslie's 
lips. 

"Who  else  is  there  here?"  proceeded  Ilings- 
worth, without  formality. 

"  Nellie,  the  girl  that  lives  here,"  she  told  him 
in  lowered  tones.  "  He  takes  care  of  her.  She's 
been  sick — he's  had  to  stay  up  nights  and  work 
all  day,  and  it's  a  pity  to  wake  him  up.  .  .  ." 

"He  hasn't  retired  yet,  then?"  asked  Leslie, 
inanely,  for  want  of  something  better  to  say. 

But  whatever  would  have  been  the  woman's 
reply  it  did  not  reach  her  lips,  for  just  at  that  mo- 
ment there  was  a  stir,  an  exclamation  from  the 
corner  of  the  room,  and  a  man  rising  to  his  full 
height — a  man,  tall,  strong,  bronzed,  clad  in 
workman's  clothes,  cried  out  sharply: 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        361 

"Who's  voice  was  that?  I  thought  I  heard 
a  voice  .  .  ." 

The  woman  waved  the  two  out  in  the  hall,  and 
answered : 

"No,  she  hasn't  stirred." 

Beekman  stretched  his  arms,  and  replied,  lower- 
ing his  voice: 

"  I  don't  mean  Nell.  I  mean  her  voice — Les- 
lie's. Who's  out  there,  Miss  Braine?" 

Madeline  motioned  to  Ilingsworth  and  Leslie 
to  come  in,  but  at  the  very  moment  they  entered 
a  young  voice  rose  from  the  next  room,  and  cried 
in  all  its  weakness: 

"Madeline!    Eliot!    Oh,  Eliot.     .     .     ." 

"  We've  awakened  her,"  said  Madeline  Braine, 
contritely,  hurrying  toward  the  inner  door.  But 
Giles  Ilingsworth  interrupted  her  flight  and  caught 
her  as  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"  Just  wait  a  moment,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 

Again  the  voice  raised  itself  in  supplication. 

"Madeline!     Eliot.     .     .     ." 

"You  recognised  a  voice,"  said  Ilingsworth  to 
Beekman,  "but  I  recognise  a  voice,  too."  He 
caught  up  the  lamp  and  started  for  the  next  room, 
but  Beekman  was  before  him  standing  at  tthe 
threshold. 

"  That's  a  bedroom,"  he  explained. 

"  Let  go  of  me,  Beekman ! "  cried  the  old  man. 


362        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  know  what  I'm  about ! "  And  with  a  steady 
step  he  marched  on  into  the  next  room. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  loud  cry,  a  woman's  cry  of 
sudden  joy,  reached  their  ears.  Madeline  has- 
tened in.  The  next  instant,  while  Leslie  and 
Beekman  stood  facing  one  another,  they  heard  a 
muffled  groan  and  Ilingsworth  came  out  again. 
Holding  up  the  light  to  Beekman's  eyes,  he  looked 
into  them  sternly. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  "she's  a  living  wreck, 
almost." 

"  You  should  have  seen  her  when  she  first  came 
here,  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  answered  Beekman,  re- 
turning the  other's  gaze  with  interest. 

"You  saved  my  life,  Beekman,"  went  on  Giles 
Ilingsworth,  his  voice  trembling;  "but  for  how 
much  of  this  are  you  responsible?" 

Madeline  Braine  pressed  to  his  side  and  said: 

"  Let  me  answer  that.  Governor  Beekman  did 
more  than  save  your  life,  he  saved  hers — saved 
her  from  drowning,  nursed  her,  fed  her,  lodged 
her,  he  has  brought  her  back  to  life — back  to 
you." 

But  Giles  Ilingsworth  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Let  him  answer,"  he  persisted. 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  tell.  Upon  my 
honour,  there  is  not,"  spoke  up  Beekman. 

In  sudden  relief,  then,  Giles  Ilingsworth  started 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         363 

for  the  room;  and  Leslie,  pressing  close  to  him, 
asked  if  she  might  see  the  girl. 

"  She  needed  someone  to  take  care  of  her,  and 
she  found  Eliot,"  she  sighed  a  moment  later  as 
she  stood  in  the  shadow  and  saw  Elinor  lying 
propped  up  against  white  pillows,  her  eyes  very 
large  and  lustrous,  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips.  And 
then  she  softly  left  the  room. 

Within,  Ilingsworth  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
and  babbled  like  a  child,  happiness  suffusing  his 
countenance;  a  little  while  longer  and  his  voice 
became  firm  once  more,  had  the  ring  of  convic- 
tion in  it,  weakness  had  dropped  from  him  as  a 
mantle. 

"  I'm  happy,  oh,  so  happy,  Elinor ! "  he  cried. 

There  were  no  questions  on  his  lips  for  her  to 
answer;  she  knew  there  never  would  be.  Nothing 
mattered  to  her  nor  to  him  now  save  that  they 
were  together  and  were  happy  in  each  other's 
love. 

Madeline  knelt  suddenly  on  the  other  side  of 
the  couch. 

"  Mr.  Ilingsworth,"  she  whispered  in  a  chok- 
ing voice,  "  there's  something  that  I've  got  to  tell 
you,  something  that's  been  driving  me  almost 
mad,  for  a  long  time."  Her  face  grew  white  and 
her  eyes  widened  as  she  met  the  old  man's  gaze. 
"It  was  I,"  she  confessed,  "I  shot  Mr.  Pallis- 
ter." 


364         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

In  a  bound  Ilingsworth  was  on  his  feet,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  hers. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed.     "You     .     .     .!" 

"Don't — 'don't  let  them  hear!"  she  moaned, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  I'm  weak — I've 
always  been  weak,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
none  of  this  would  have  happened." 

"It  was  Wilkinson,"  cried  Ilingsworth,  clench- 
ing his  hands,  "Wilkinson  is  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all!" 

The  woman  grasped  at  his  sympathetic  tone. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered;  and  turning  to 
Elinor :  "  I  was  like  you,  dear — I  had  nobody  to 
take  care  of  me." 

"But,"  he  protested,  "it  was  my  gun.   .   .   ." 

"  Yes.  That  day  when  you  talked  to  his  daugh- 
ter I  was  there — behind  the  hangings.  You  laid 
the  gun  behind  you  on  a  table,  dropped  it  there 
behind  a  book." 

Ilingsworth  placed  his  hand  against  his  fore- 
head and  thought  a  moment. 

"  So  I  did.  It  all  comes  back  to  me  now,"  he 
returned.  "  I  forgot  even  that  at  my  trial.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  account  for  its  disappear- 
ance." 

"  I  picked  it  up  and  kept  it  here,"  said  the 
woman,  placing  her  hand  upon  her  bosom. 
"  Some  instinct  made  me  do  it.  I  was  going  to 
break  with  Wilkinson — I  had  made  up  my  mind 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        365 

never  to  see  him  again,  and  I  didn't  know  but 
that  I  would  need  it  to  threaten  him,  so  I  kept  it." 
Her  eyes  grew  dark  with  anger.  "Afterwards 
he  treated  me  cruelly,  told  something,  well,  some- 
thing that  has  ruined  my  life.  I  was  in  the  crowd 
that  day,  and, — well,  you  know  the  rest.  Don't — 
don't  tell  anybody,"  she  pleaded.  "They'd  kill 
me,  kill  me  before  I  had  a  chance  to  redeem  my- 
self. I  don't  want  to  die — I  can't  die.  I  did 
my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Ilingsworth, — after  I  had 
done  my  worst,"  she  ended  in  a  sob. 

Ilingsworth  crossed  to  her  side  and  looked  down 
upon  her  kindly. 

"  My  dear  child,  it  was  you  that  saved  me.  We 
all  know  what  would  have  happened  if  the  Gov- 
ernor had  never  seen  you.  I  don't  want  to  tell 
anybody,  and  I'm  sure  Elinor  doesn't,  either;  nor 
am  I  sure  that  I  am  under  obligations  to  tell  any- 
body. I  bought  the  gun  to  kill;  you  killed  in  a 
fit  of  anger.  We're  in  precisely  the  same  posi- 
tion, aren't  we?  We  had  murder  in  our  souls 
and  this  man  Wilkinson  put  it  there." 

"  I  want  you  to1  know,"  she  went  on  falteringly, 
"that  all  the  lies  I've  told,  all  the  things  I've 
done,  all  the  weakness  that's  in  me;  he's  responsi- 
ble for  them  all.  There  was  never  anybody  in 
my  life  but  Peter  Wilkinson." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Giles  Ilingsworth 
was  the  first  to  break  it. 


366         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  Miss  Braine,  I've  been  trying  to  figure  out 
some  way  so  that  we  can  all  take  care  of  each 
other.  We  all  seem  to  need  looking  after.  Per- 
haps my  courage  and  strength  will  come  back  now 
that  my  own  little  girl  has  been  returned  to  me. 
I've  got  to  make  a  home  for  her,  you  see — 
there'll  be  a  place  there  for  you,  too,  always,  if 
you'll  come." 

Madeline  had  not  -expected  so  much  kindness, 
and  the  tears  began  to  roll  down  her  cheeks. 

"  May  we  come  in?  "  asked  a  voice  at  the  door. 

And  Leslie  Wilkinson,  a  new  light  in  her  face 
— a  light  that  was  worth  while,  for  she  had  solved 
a  weighty  problem  in  the  last  half-hour — once 
more  entered,  Beekman  following  close  at  her 
heels. 

"There  are  some  things  I  wish  to  say  to  ex- 
Governor  Beekman  in  the  presence  of  you  all — 
some  things  that  you  don't  know,  though  I've 
heard  some  of  you  charge  my  father  with  them," 
she  went  on,  her  face  paling.  "  I  learned  the 
truth  myself  less  than  a  month  ago,  Eliot,"  now 
turning  to  him,  "that  somewhere  and  somehow 
there  are  standing  in  my  name  securities  amount- 
ing to  a  hundred  million  dollars.  I  know  it's  so 
— I  can  testify  to  it — they  don't  belong  to  me." 

'"They  belong  to  Wilkinson,"  broke  in  Ilings- 
worth.  "  I've  known  it  all  along,  but  I've  never 
been  able  to  prove  it." 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        367 

"They  don't  belong  to  my  father,"  went  on 
Leslie,  her  eyes  meeting  Beekman's  in  triumph, 
"but  to  the  depositors  in  my  father's  trust  com- 
panies." 

Beekman  looked  at  the  girl  in  amazement? 
Ilingsworth  muttered  something  to  himself  and 
was  about  to  speak,  but  Leslie  interrupted  him. 

"One  word  more,  Mr.  Ilingsworth,  if  you 
please,"  she  said.  And  again  turning  to  Beek- 
man, she  went  on:  "Eliot,  you  know  that  I  have 
money  in  my  own  right — money  to  do  with  as  I 
wish.  Therefore,  I  retain  you  now,  not  on  my 
own  behalf,  but  on  behalf  of  half  a  million  de- 
positors in  three  States,  to  start  a  fight  to  get  that 
money  back.  We'll  begin  right  now,"  she  con- 
cluded, her  voice  ringing  with  determination, 
"with  Giles  Ilingsworth.  You  are  retained  by 
him.  .  .  ." 

The  fire  leaped  into  Beekman's  eyes;  he  sniffed 
with  excitement. 

"Half  a  million  depositors!"  he  cried,  hope 
growing  in  his  voice.  "That  means  half  a  mil- 
lion clients.  I'm  still  a  counsellor-at-law — the 
good  old  Appellate  Division  withstood  all  at- 
tempts to  disbar  me.  Half  a  million  clients — 
yes,  I  accept." 

"What  about  the  evidence?"  queried  Ilings- 
worth. 

Beekman  held  up  his  hand. 


368        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  The  Bank  Le  Boeuf  of  Buffalo — they  charged 
these  things.  They  must  have  evidence.  .  .  ." 

"  I  can  furnish  some,"  said  Ilingsworth. 

"  I  have  overheard  Peter  Wilkinson,"  faltered 
Madeline  Braine. 

"And  so  have  I,"  cried  Leslie;  "and  besides, 
everything  is  in  my  name,  and  I  won't  sign  an- 
other paper  or  pay  out  another  dollar  until  every- 
body has  had  his  rights." 

Leaving  Ilingsworth  with  his  two  charges  joy- 
fully planning  their  future,  Eliot  and  Leslie  re- 
turned to  the  next  room. 

"  We've  got  a  long  fight  ahead,  Leslie — a  run- 
ning fight,  as  Colonel  Morehead  calls  it,  but  I'm 
ready.  Come,  we  begin  to-night — we  cannot 
start  too  soon." 

"You  remind  me  of  that  night,"  Leslie  whis- 
pered, "that  night  when  you  brought  the  ring." 
He  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  her,  the  room  was 
reeling  about  him.  But  the  girl,  knowing  that 
she  must  do  the  wooing  if  she  were  to  win  him 
back  at  all,  went  over  to  him,  and,  laying  an 
affectionate  hand  upon  his  shoulder  as  she 
looked  up  into  his  eyes,  she  said  very  tenderly 
now: 

"  Eliot,  if  we're  going  to  fight,  don't  you  think 
we'll  fight  better  if  we  fight  together  ?  I  wouldn't 
dare  to  ask  you  this  if  I  didn't  see  the  hunger  in 
your  eyes  for  me  just  as  the  hunger  is  in  my  heart 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        369 

for  you.  And  Eliot,"  she  went  on,  nestling  closer 
all  the  while,  "won't  you  marry  me  to-night — 
won't  you  say  you  will?" 

This  sudden  rush  of  happiness  was  too  much 
for  Beekman,  and  he  could  hardly  speak.  For 
answer  he  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist  and 
pressed  her  close  to  him,  their  lips  meeting  in  one 
long  kiss,  as  they  had  that  night  so  long  ago, 
when  she  had  promised  herself  to  him. 

A  little  while  later,  Beekman  drew  his  shabby 
coat  about  him,  but  Leslie  saw  nothing  but  the 
man  underneath  it.  His  shoulders  that  had  been 
drooping  under  the  burden  of  adversity,  when 
she  entered  the  room,  now  squared  themselves; 
his  mouth  was  firm,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  as  side 
by  side  they  passed  out  into  the  darkness. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  Wilkinson  was 
saying  as  he  glanced  first  at  Flomerfelt  and  then 
at  his  wife.  They  had  bearded  him  in  his  Den  a 
little  while  before,  broken  in  upon  his  reverie,  and 
instinctively  he  felt  that  their  presence  there 
augured  no  good  to  him. 

It  was  Flomerfelt  who  answered: 

"Thirds,  Wilkinson.  One-third  for  me  and 
one  for  Mrs.  Wilkinson." 

"By  what  right  do  you  'demand  it?"  asked 
Peter  V.,  lolling  back  in  his  chair.  "And  you?" 
he  added,  looking  at  his  wife. 


370        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"I'll  tell  ^everything "  began  Mrs.  Peter 

V.  But  Flomerfelt  interposed  with: 

"  She's  your  wife,  Wilkinson."  'And  lowering 
his  voice,  he  continued:  "Your  property  is  per- 
sonalty, stocks  and  bonds.  In  case  of  your  death 
she  would  be  -entitled  to  a  third.  She  merely 
asks  her  right." 

"  In  case  of  my  death,"  mused  Wilkinson. 
"  But  I'm  not  going  to  die — not  yet,"  he  added, 
a  moment  later. 

Flomerfelt's  brows  contracted,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed, he  looked  Wilkinson  full  in  the  face. 

"How  do  you  know  you're  not?"  he  asked. 

*'Is  that  a  threat?"  asked  Wilkinson,  rising. 

Flomerfelt,  who  hoped  in  the  long  run  to  wind 
up  in  Paris  with  two-thirds  of  Peter's  hidden  for- 
tune, for  he  expected  that  Mrs.  Peter  V.,  with 
her  third,  in  time  would  join  him  there,  was  glad 
to  note  that  at  his  suggestion  of  death  the  woman 
had  regarded  him  once  more  with  fear.  She  had 
believed  him  responsible  for  the  death  of  Roy 
Pallister,  and  he  had  fostered  this  belief,  had 
held  her  within  the  circle  of  conspiracy,  had  held 
her  as  one  chargeable,  too,  with  death  of  the  boy. 
It  was  a  safe  venture,  for  not  once  had  he  by  word 
of  mouth  connected  himself  with  that  tragedy. 
Indeed,  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  as  to  who 
was  responsible  for  it,  but  all  through  he  felt 
that  Mrs.  Peter  V.,  believing  him  responsible,  felt 


"We've  got  a  long  fight  ahead,  Leslie — a  running  fight, 
as  Colonel   Morehead  calls  it,  but  I'm  ready" 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         371 

herself  mixed  up,  felt,  too,  perhaps,  that  they  had 
gone  too  far.  And,  watching  her  out  of  the  tail 
o_f  his  eye,  he  held  his  glance  impudently  upon 
Wilkinson's  face. 

"  Not  a  threat,  but  a  surmise,"  he  answered  in 
the  same  even  tone.  "  People  have  sought  your 
life  before,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  his  face 
breaking  out  into  a  disagreeable  smile,  "  and  even 
you  have  attempted  suicide.  If  you  should  die, 
what  would  become  of  her?" 

"  When  I  die  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  about 
it,"  snarled  Wilkinson.  And  thrusting  his  face 
now  into  that  of  the  other,  he  demanded:  "  Come, 
what's  the  game?  Lay  your  cards  down  on  the 
table — out  into  the  open.  Why  do  you  want  a 
third.  .  .  .?" 

"  Chiefly  because  I've  earned  it." 

"  Earned  it !  I  took  you  out  of  the  gutter,  you 
ingrate ! " 

Flomerfelt  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  If  I  haven't  earned  it  so  far,  then  I  shall 
earn  it  in  the  future,"  he  said- 

"How?" 

"  By  keeping  silent  in  the  presence  of  one  per- 
son." 

"Who?" 

Flomerfelt  smiled,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Leslie  Wilkinson,  of  course,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Peter  V. 


372        THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

"  I  don't  understand,"  muttered  Wilkinson,, 
once  more  puffing  on  his  cigar.  "Why  silent  in 
her  presence?  What's  that  to  me?" 

"  It  isn't  necessary  to  go  over  the  facts,"  re- 
turned Flomerfelt.  "To  be  brief,  you've  got  a 
mint  of  money  in  her  hands,  which  she  knows 
nothing  about.  You  know  where  it  is,  the  missus 
knows,  and  I  know.  Some  chaps  in  Vienna  know, 
thirds  for  us,  or  tell  her.  .  .  ?  " 

Peter  laughed  aloud. 

"Tell  her  if  you  want  to,"  he  roared.  "But 
do  you  suppose  she'd  give  the  game  away?  She! 
Why,  she's  the  only  trump  I  ever  had  about  me ! 
She'll  stick  through  thick  and  thin !  Tell  her  and 
be  hanged ! " 

Flomerfelt  held  up  his  hands,  saying: 

"  I  must  say  that  you  don't  know  your  own 
daughter." 

"You're  a  fool,  Peter!"  said  his  wife,  sharply. 

"The  instant  the  girl  knows,  it's  all  up  with 
you,  my  friend,"  went  on  Flomerfelt.  "  But  she 
needs  managing,  watching.  It  takes  more  than 
you  to  manage,  to  watch  her,  too.  What  is  it — 
thirds  for  us,  or  tell  her.  .  .  ." 

Peter  turned  his  back  upon  them. 

"  Tell  her  and  be  hanged ! "  he  said. 

Flomerfelt's  eyes  sought  those  of  the  lady. 
"What's  the  next  move?"  hers  seemed  to  ask  of 
him.  A  smile  of  cunning  crossed  his  face. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT        373 

"Then,  Peter,  we'll  tell  the  public,"  he  ven- 
tured. 

Peter  swung  about,  crying: 
"Ah,  why  didn't  you  get  down  to  that  in  the 
first  place!  I  can  understand  that — I've  under- 
stood it  all  along — you  were  bound  to  hold  me 
up.  I'm  used  to  that — have  had  it  all  my  life. 
Now,  look  here,  Flomerfelt,  I'm  through  with 
you — through  with  both  of  you.  But  I'm  will- 
ing to  be  fair.  I  bought  Leech  with  a  million 
dollars,  as  you  know.  And  I'll  do  the  same  with 
you — with  her.  You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,  just 
as  you  please." 

"  It's  not  enough,"  spoke  up  Flomerfelt. 
"  I  should  think  not,"  said  the  lady. 
Peter  V.  took  out  his  watch  and  said : 
"  I'll  give  you  just  one  minute  to  accept." 
Flomerfelt  took  out  his  watch,  and  answered: 
"  I'll  give  you  two  minutes  to  divide  with  us." 
At  the  end  of  a  minute  they  were  glaring  into 
•each  other's   faces  like  beasts  of  prey.     Wilkin- 
son held  up  his  hand  and  repeated: 

"You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,  just  as  you 
please." 

"Thirds  or  nothing,"  answered  the  other  stub- 
bornly, at  which  reply  Wilkinson  thrust  his  watch 
into  his  pocket  and  strolled  toward  the  door, 
where  he  waited  until  Flomerfelt  raised  his  hand ; 
and  in  that  brief  moment  it  was  borne  in  upon  him 


374         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

that  he  was  not  the  Wilkinson  of  old,  that  he  had, 
someho^,  lost  his  grip. 

"You  decline?"  asked  Flomerfelt.  "All 
right!  Then  to-morrow  the  whole  story  goes  to 
Leslie  Wilkinson." 

"What  whole  story,  Mr.  Flomerfelt?"  aslced  a 
young  woman,  now  entering  the  room,  and  so 
pleasantly  that  for  a  moment  Flomerfelt  fell  back 
aghast. 

"What  story,  Mr.  Flomerfelt?"  she  repeated. 
But  again  he  did  not  answer.  And  her  father, 
taking  his  courage  in  both  hands,  came  forward 
and  said: 

"The  time  has  come,  girlie,  when  you've  got 
to  make  a  choice  for  life — you've  got  to  tell  me 
where  you  stand — on  my  side  or  theirs." 

Leslie  slowly  retreated  to  the  door;  a  man  en- 
tered and  stood  beside  her. 

"  I've  made  my  choice,  father.  This  is  Eliot 
Beekman,  my  husband,"  she  announced  bravely, 
a  smile  on  her  lips. 

Wilkinson  could  not  believe  his  ears.  For  a 
moment  he  did  not  speak,  but  looked  helplessly 
from  one  to  the  other;  and  Leslie,  waiting  for 
the  words  that  did  not  come,  saw  her  stepmother 
grow  pale,  saw  Flomerfelt's  fingers  stealthily 
grope  into  the  depths  of  his  sleeves,  draw  down 
his  cuffs,  and  heave  a  sigh  as  he  watched  the  lat- 
ter settle  into  place. 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         375 

;'Yes,  father,  I've  made  my  choice,"  she  re- 
peated, placing  her  hand  in  Beekman's. 

It  was  indeed  an  odd-looking  pair  that  Wilkin- 
son looked  upon:  the  girl  all  smiles  and  gladness, 
happy  in  the  love  that  she  had  at  last  won;  the 
man,  a  scarecrow,  almost,  his  ragged  coat  reveal- 
ing a  ragged  flannel  shirt  and  clothes  worn  thread- 
bare. He  frowned.  For  an  instant  he  seemed 
vengeance  personified. 

"You "  faltered  her  father. 

"  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  cried  Beekman,  advancing 
to  that  individual,  "  I've  come  back  to  strip  you 
naked  as  the  day  you  were  born,  and  I'm  going  to 
do  it,  too." 

"You'll  have  a  good  time  doing  it,"  Wilkin- 
son answered  with  bravado,  although  a  growing 
fear  was  upon  him. 

"  I  expect  to,  I  assure  you,"  returned  the  other, 
"  for  I  represent  the  depositors  in  your  rotten 
banks.  Once  they  sought  your  life,  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son,"— for  even  he  didn't  know  the  truth, — "  and 
now  they're  after  money — the  money  that  be- 
longs to  them  and  not  to  you.  I've  started  in  to 
get  it,  I've  come  to  get  possession  of  it,  to  find 
out  where  it  is." 

"You'll  have  a  good  time  doing  it,"  was 
all  that  Peter  V.  could  find,  apparently,  to 
say. 

"All  I  want  to  know  is  the  name  of  the  safe 


376         THE    RUNNING    FIGHT 

deposit  vault  where  you  keep  your  securities.  I'll 
be  content  with  that,  Mr.  Wilkinson." 

"What  securities?"     Wilkinson  paled. 

"All  of  them — everything,"  answered  Beek- 
man. 

Wilkinson  started,  glared  at  Leslie,  then  he 
sank  into  a  chair,  for  he  saw  that  she  knew  and 
had  judged  him,  condemned  him. 

"You  see,  what  you  got  for  your  pains,"  Wil- 
kinson said  presently  to  Flomerfelt,  sneeringly. 

Flomerfelt  nodded;  but  as  the  two  men  stared 
at  each  other,  they  registered  a  silent  pact;  Flom- 
erfelt agreed  with  Wilkinson,  and  Wilkinson 
agreed  with  Flomerfelt,  that  there  should  be  a 
truce. 

This  Beekman  was  a  common  enemy,  and  there 
must  be  no  disclosures  now:  to  give  the  game 
away  would  be  to  rob  them  both  of  everything. 

"You  may  as  well  answer,  Mr.  Wilkinson," 
continued  Beekman,  "  for  I'm  determined  on 
cleaning  you  up  from  top  to  toe.  I'm  your  enemy 
and  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  represent  every 
other  enemy  you  have.  I've  begun  with  Ilings- 
worth.  I'm  going  to  clear  his  name,  put  him 
where  he  belongs ;  I'm  going  to  clear  up  mysteries 
and  let  daylight  into  the  hidden  places, — every 
mystery  from  the  giving  of  your  million-dollar 
bail-bond  to  the  secret  of  your  pardon.  Nothing 
shall  escape  me,  I'll  even  ferret  out  the  mystery 


THE    RUNNING    FIGHT         377 

of  the  death  of  Pallister,  for,"  and  his  finger 
pointed  straight  toward  Wilkinson,  "  for  all  I 
know  you're  at  the  bottom  of  that  thing  your- 
self." 

"  Fidelity  Deposit  vaults,"  came  gasping  from 
the  throat  of  Mrs.  Peter  V.  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room;  and  holding  out  her  hands  plead- 
ingly toward  Beekman,  she  added: 

"  I  had  nothing,  nothing  whatever,  to  do  with 
the  murder  of  Roy.  I  am  innocent,  I  can  prove 
my  innocence.  I'll  tell  all  I  know.  The  Fidelity 
Deposit  vaults  —  that's  where.  .  .  ."  She 
sank  cowering  into  a  chair. 

Flomerfelt  realised  now  that  he  had  made  an. 
egregious  blunder  in  his  method  of  the  past:  this, 
wholesome  fear  that  he  had  instilled  in  her  had 
been  his  own  undoing,  a  boomerang.  But  he  was 
not  yet  through ;  he  saw  another  loophole  open  for 
him. 

"  Peter,"  he  cried,  "come  to  my  terms  and  I'll 
help  you  to  fight.  If  you  don't " 

Beekman  stood  by  with  folded  arms.  He  had 
come  there  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  to  give  vent  to  his 
pent-up  sense  of  injury.  He  had  regretted  his 
coming,  it  is  true,  the  instant  he  stepped  inside  of 
the  room.  Yet  it  was  this  same  frenzy,  this  de- 
termined air  of  his,  this  sweeping  into  the  open 
and  offering  fight,  they  had  really  done  the  trick, 
struck  terror  to  the  hearts  of  all  three. 


378         THE,   RUNNING    FIGHT 

And  now  he  actually  smiled.  Flomerfelt's  game 
suddenly  became  clear,  and  Beekman  knew  that 
they  were  playing  right  into  his  hands.  So  he 
waited  in  silence. 

"Wilkinson,"  cried  Flomerfelt,  with  quick,  in- 
cisive tones,  like  dagger  thrusts  they  were, 
"which  shall  it  be?" 

"Neither!"  exclaimed  Wilkinson,  his  clenched 
hand  crashing  down  upon  the  table,  and  then  go- 
ing over  to  his  son-in-law,  he  laid  his  chubby 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  said :  "  Eliot,  my  boy, 
you've  got  me  beat — but  I'm  going  to  surrender, 
and — "  he  leered  at  Flomerfelt  and  Mrs.  Peter 
V. ;  then  added:  "and  not  be  given  up." 

A  moment  later  Flomerfelt  started  softly  for 
the  door,  followed  by  Mrs.  Peter  V.  But  Beek- 
man barred  the  way. 

"  Hold  on  there !  "  he  cried.  "  Peter  V.  Wil- 
kinson possibly  is  immune  from  further  criminal 
prosecution,  but  I  don't  know  about  you  two.  But 
whatever  part  you've  had  in  the  conspiracy  you 
may  be  sure  that  I'll  find  out.  There's  no  escape 
for  you." 


THE  END 


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